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LfBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


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Tongues  of  Conscience. 


Tongues  of 
Conscience 


By  Robert*^Hichens 

Author  of  **Flames,"  *'The 
"Green  Carnation,"  et  cetera 


New  York 

I'Tcdcrick    A.    Stokes    Company 

Publishers 


Copyright y   1898,   1900,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes   Company 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

Sea  Change i 

' '  William  Foster  " 1 09 

The  Cry  of  the  Child 183 

How  Love  Came  to  Professor  Guildea 267 

The  Lady  and  the  Beggar 341 


"  Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change, 
luto  something  rich  and  strange." 

SliAKiiSl'iiARK. 


SEA  CHANGE. 

PART  I. 
THE  RAINBOW. 


SEA  CHANGE. 


PART   I. 


THE    RAINBOW. 

In  London  nightfall  is  a  delirium  of  bustle,  in 
the  country  the  coming  of  a  dream.  The  town 
scatters  a  dust  of  city  men  over  its  long  and  lighted 
streets,  powders  its  crying  thoroughfares  with 
gaily  dressed  creatures  who  are  hidden,  like  bats, 
during  the  hours  of  day,  opens  a  thousand  defiant 
yellow  eyes  that  have  been  sealed  in  sleep,  throws 
off  its  wrapper  and  shows  its  elaborate  toilet.  The 
country  grows  demure  and  brown,  most  modest  in 
the  shadows.  Labourers  go  home  along  the  damp 
and  silent  lanes  with  heavy  weariness.  The  parish 
clergyman  flits  likx-  a  blackbird  through  the  twink- 
ling village.  Dogs  bark  from  solitar)'  farms.  A 
beautiful  and  soft  depression  fills  all  the  air  like 
incense  or  like  evening  bells.  But  whether  night 
reveals  or  hides  the  activities  of  men  it  changes 

3 


4  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE.  4 

them  most  curiously.  The  difference  between 
man  in  day,  man  in  night,  is  acute. 

The  arrival  of  darkness  always  meant  something 
to  the  Rev.  Peter  Uniacke,  whose  cure  of  souls 
now  held  him  far  from  the  swarming  alleys  and 
the  docks  in  which  his  early  work  had  been  done. 
He  seldom  failed  to  give  this  visitor,  so  strange 
and  soft-footed,  some  slight  greeting.  Sometimes 
his  welcome  was  a  sigh,  sometimes  a  prayer,  some- 
times a  clenching  of  the  hands,  a  smile,  a  pause  in 
his  onward  walk.  '  Looking  backward  along  his 
past  he  could  see  his  tall  figure  in  many  different 
places,  aware  of  the  first  footfalls  of  the  night,  now 
alone  and  thinking  of  night's  allegory  of  man's 
end,  now  in  company,  when  the  talk  insensibly 
changed  its  character,  flowing  into  deeper,  more 
mysterious  or  confidential  channels.  Peter  Uniacke 
had  listened  to  informal  confessions,  too,  as  the 
night  fell,  confessions  of  sin  that  at  first  surprised 
him,  that  at  last  could  no  longer  -surprise  him. 
And  he  had  confessed  himself,  before  the  altar  of 
the  twilight,  and  had  wondered  why  it  is  that  some- 
times Nature  seems  to  have  the  power  of  absolu- 
tion, even  as  God  has  it. 

Now,  at  the  age  of  thirty-two,  he  heard  the  foot- 
steps of  night  on  a  windy  evening  of  November, 
They  drew  near  to  the  wall  of  the  churchyard  in 
which  stood  the  sturdy  and  rugged  building  where 
now  he  ministered,  on  a  little  isle  set  lonely  in  a 
harsh  and  dangerous  northern  sea.  He  listened 
to  them,  leaning  his  arms  along  this  wall,  by  which 


THE    RAINBOW.  5 

the  grey  and  sleepless  waves  sang  loudly.  In  the 
churchyard,  growing  gradually  dim  and  ethereal, 
were  laid  many  bodies  from  which  the  white  vam- 
pires of  the  main  had  sucked  out  the  souls.  Here 
mouldered  fisher  lads,  who  had  whistled  over  the 
nets,  and  dreamed  rough  dreams  of  winning  island 
girls  and  breeding  hardy  children.  Here  reposed 
old  limbs  of  salty  mariners,  who  had  for  so  long 
defied  the  ocean  that  when  they  knew  themselves 
taken  at  the  last,  they  turned  their  rugged  faces 
down  to  their  enemy  with  a  stony  and  an  ironic 
wonder.  And  here,  too,  among  these  cast-up 
bodies  of  the  drowned,  lay  many  women  who  had 
loved  the  prey  of  the  sea,  and  kissed  the  cheeks 
turned  acrid  by  its  winds  and  waters.  Some  of 
them  had  died  from  heart-sickness,  cursing  the  sea. 
Some  had  faded,  withering  like  the  pale  sand  roses 
beside  the  sea.  Some  had  lived  to  old  age  by 
empty  hearths,  in  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

Inscriptions  faded  upon  the  stones  that  lay  above 
them.  Texts  of  comfort  in  which  the  fine,  salt 
films  crept,  faint  verses  of  sweet  hymns  defiled  by 
the  perching  sea-birds,  old  rhymes  like  homely 
ejaculations  of  very  simple  hearts,  sank  into  the 
gathering  darkness  on  every  hand.  The  graves 
seemed  murmuring  to  the  night :  "  Look  on  me, 
I  hold  a  lover;"  "  And  I — I  keep  fast  a  maiden  ;" 
"  And  within  my  arms  crumbles  a  little  child 
caught  by  the  sea  ;"  "  And  I  fold  a  mother,  whose 
son  is  in  the  hideous  water  foliage  of  the  depths 
of  the  sea  ;"  "  And  I  embrace  an  old  captain  whom 


6  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIKNCE. 

the  sea  loved  even  in  his  hollow  age."  The  last 
inscription  that  stood  clear  to  Peter  Uniacke's 
eyes  in  the  dying  light  ran  thus : 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Jack  Pringlc,  cast  up  by 
the  sea  on  December  4th,  1S96.  He  was  boy  on 
the  schooner  '  Flying  Fish.'  His  age  seventeen. 
'  Lead  kindly  Light.'  " 

Uniacke  watched  this  history  go  into  the  maw  of 
the  darkness,  and  when  it  was  gone  he  found  him- 
self environed  by  the  cool  sea  noises  which  seemed 
to  grow  louder  in  the  night,  wondering  whether 
the  "  Kindly  Light  "  was  indeed  leading  on  Jack 
Pringle,  no  longer  boy  on  the  schooner  "  Flying 
Fish,"  but — what?  The  soul  of  a  fisher  lad,  who 
had  kissed  his  girl,  and  drunk  his  glass,  and  told 
many  a  brave  and  unfitting  tale,  and  sworn  many 
a  lusty  oath,  following  some  torch  along  the  radiant 
ways  of  Heaven  !  Was  that  it  ?  Uniacke  had,  pos- 
sibly, preached  now  and  then  that  so  indeed  it 
was.  Or,  perhaps,  was  the  light-hearted  and  care- 
less living  lad  caught  fast,  like  sunk  wreckage,  in 
the  under  sea  of  Hell,  where  pain  is  like  a  living 
fire  in  the  moving  dimness?  "His  age  seven- 
teen." Could  that  be  true  and  God  merciful  ? 
With  such  thoughts,  Uniacke  greeted  the  falling 
of  night.  In  the  broad  daylight,  full  of  the  songs 
and  of  the  moving  figures  of  his  brawny  fisher 
folk,  he  had  felt  less  poetically  uncertain.  He 
had  said  like  men  at  sea,  "  All's  well !  "  More,  he 


THE    RAINBOW.  ^ 

had  been  able  to  feel  it.  But  now  he  leaned  on 
the  churchyard  wall  and  it  was  cold  to  his  arms. 
And  the  song  of  the  sea  was  cold  in  his  ears.  And 
the  night  lay  cold  upon  his  heart.  And  his  mind — 
in  the  grim,  and  apparently  unmeaning  way  of 
minds  set  to  sad  music  in  a  sad  atmosphere — 
crept  round  and  round  about  the  gravestone  of 
this  boy  ;  bereft  of  boyhood  so  early,  of  manhood 
ere  he  won  to  it,  and  carried  so  swiftly  into 
mystery  beyond  the  learning  of  all  philosophy. 
Ignorance,  in  jersey  and  dripping  sea  boots,  set 
face  to  face  with  all  knowledge,  and  that  called  a 
tragedy ! 

Yet  now  to  Peter  Uniacke  it  was  tragedy,  and 
his  own  situation,  left  in  the  safety  of  ignorance 
preaching  to  the  ignorant,  tragedy  too,  because  of 
the  night,  and  the  winds  and  the  sea  noises,  and 
the  bareness  of  this  Isle. 

Beyond  the  church  a  light  shone  out,  and  a 
bearded  shadow  towered  and  dwindled  upon  a 
white  blind.  Uniacke,  a  bachelor,  and  now  al- 
most of  necessity  a  recluse,  entertained  for  the  pres- 
ent a  visitor.  Remembering  the  substance  of  the 
shadow  he  opened  the  churchyard  gate,  threaded 
his  way  among  the  gravestones,  and  was  quickly 
at  the  vicarage  door.  As  he  passed  within,  a 
yellow  glow  of  lamplight  and  of  firelight  streamed 
into  the  narrow  passage  from  a  chamber  on  the 
left  hand,  and  he  heard  his  piano,  surprised  to 
learn  that  it  could  be  taught  todeliverpassionately 
long  winding  melodies  from    Tristan  and  Isolde. 


8  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Uniacke  laid  down  his  hat  and  stick  and  entered 
his  sitting-room,  still  companioned  by  the  shadowy 
thought-form  of  the  boy  of  the  schooner"  Flying 
Fish,"  who  seemed  to  tramp  at  his  side  noiselessly, 
in  long  sea-boots  that  streamed  with  the  salt 
water. 

The  man  at  the  piano  turned  round,  showing  a 
handsome  and  melancholy  face,  and  eyes  that 
looked  as  if  they  were  tired,  having  seen  too  many 
men  and  deeds  and  cities. 

"  I  make  myself  at  home,  you  see,"  he  said,  "  as 
I  hope  you  will  some  day  in  my  studio,  when  you 
visit  me  at  Kensington." 

Uniacke  smiled,  and  laid  his  hand  on  a  bell  which 
tinkled  shrewishly. 

"  It  is  a  great  treat  for  me  to  hear  music  and  a 
voice  not  my  own  in  this  room,"  he  answered. 
"  Are  you  ready  for  tea  ?  " 

*'  Thank  you,  I  painted  till  it  was  dark.  I  was 
able  to  paint." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that." 

"  When  it  was  too  dim  to  see,  and  too  cold  to 
feel  the  brush  between  my  fingers,  I  came  back  in 
the  twilight  to  my  new  roof  tree.  I  am  thankful 
to  be  out  of  the  inn,  yet  I've  stayed  in  worse 
places  in  Italy  and  Greece.  But  they  were  gilded 
by  the  climate." 

He  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  stretched  his  limbs. 
Uniacke  looked  at  him  rather  curiously.  To  the 
lonely  clergyman  it  was  a  novel  experience  to  play 
host  to  a  man  of  distinction,  to  a  stranger   who 


THE    RAINBOW.  9 

had  filled  the  world  with  his  fame  years  ago. 
Three  days  before,  in  one  of  his  island  walks, 
Uniacke  had  come  upon  a  handsome  bearded  man 
in  a  lane  full  of  mud,  between  bleak  walls  of  stone. 
The  man  stopped  him  courteously,  asked  if  he 
were  not  the  clergyman  of  the  Isle,  and,  receiving 
an  affirmative  reply,  began  to  make  some  inquiries 
as  to  lodging  accommodation. 

"  My  name  is  Sir  Graham  Hamilton,"  he  said 
presently. 

Uniacke  started  with  surprise  and  looked  at  the 
stranger  curiously.  He  had  read  much  of  the 
great  sea  painter,  of  his  lonely  wanderings,  of  his 
melancholy,  of  his  extraordinary  house  in  Kensing- 
ton, and,  just  recently,  of  his  wretched  condition 
of  health,  which,  it  was  said,  had  driven  him  sud- 
denly from  London,  the  papers  knew  not  whither. 

"  I  thought  you  were  ill,"  he  blurted  out. 

"  I  am  not  very  well,"  the  painter  said  simply, 
"and  the  inn  here  is  exceedingly  uncomfortable. 
But  I  want  to  stay.  This  is  the  very  home  of  the 
sea.  Here  I  find  not  merely  the  body  of  the  sea 
but  also  its  soul." 

"  There  are  no  good  lodgings,  I  am  afraid," 
said  the  clergyman.  "  Nobody  ever  wants  to  lodge 
here,  it  seems." 

"  I  do.    Well,  then,  I  must  keep  on  at  the  inn." 

"Come  to  stay  with  me,  will  you?"  Uniacke 
suddenly  said.  "  I  have  a  spare  room.  It  is  scarce- 
ly ever  occupied.  My  friends  find  this  island  a  far 
cry,  except  in  the  height  of  summer.     I  shall  be 


10  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

glad  of  your  company  and  glad  to  make  you  as 
comfortable  as  I  can." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  painter,  hesitat- 
ing.    "  But  I  scarcely — " 

"  Come  as  my  guest,"  said  the  clergyman,  red- 
dening slightly. 

"  Thank  you,  I  will.  And  some  day  you  must 
come  to  me  in  London." 

Now  the  painter  was  installed  at  the  Vicarage, 
and  blessed,  each  hour,  his  happy  escape  from  the 
inn,  whose  walls  seemed  expanded  by  the  forcible 
and  athletic  smell  of  stale  lish. 

Uniacke's  servant  girl  brought  in  the  tea.  The 
two  men  had  it  by  the  fire.  Presently  Hamilton 
said  : 

"  Nightfall  is  very  interesting  and  curious  here." 

"  I  find  it  so  almost  everywhere,"  Uniackesaid. 

"Yes.  It  can  never  be  dull.  But  here,  in  winter 
at  least,  it  is  extraordinarily — "  he  paused  for  the 
exactly  right  word,  in  a  calm  way  that  was  peculiar 
to  him  and  that  seemed  to  emphasise  his  fine  self- 
possession — "pathetic,  and  suggestive  of  calamity." 

"  I  have  noticed  that,  indeed,"  Uniacke  an- 
swered, "and  never,  I  think,  more  than  to-night." 

Hamilton  looked  across  at  him  in  the  firelight. 

"  Where  did  you  see  it  fall?"  he  asked. 

"  I  was  by  the  wall  of  the  churchyard." 

"  It  was  you,  then,  whom  I  saw  from  the  win- 
dow. It  seemed  to  be  a  mourner  looking  at  the 
graves." 

"  I  was  looking  at  them.     But  nobody  I  care  for 


THE    RAINBOW.  II 

deeply  is  buried  there.  The  night,  however,  in 
such  an  island  as  this,  makes  every  grave  seem 
like  the  grave  of  a  person  one  has  known.  It  is 
the  sea,  I  daresay." 

"  So  close  on  every  hand.  Why,  this  house  of 
yours  might  be  a  ship  afloat  a  hundred  miles  from 
land,  judging  by  the  sounds  of  the  waves." 

He  sighed  heavily. 

"  I  hope  the  air  will  do  you  good,"  Uniacke  re- 
marked, with  a  sudden  relapse  into  conversational 
lameness. 

"  Thank  you.  But  sea  air  is  no  novelty  to  me. 
Half  of  my  life,  at  least,  has  been  spent  in  it.  I 
have  devoted  all  the  best  of  my  life,  my  powers, 
my  very  soul  to  the  service  of  the  sea.  And  now, 
when  I  am  growing  old,  I  sometimes  think  that  I 
shall  hate  it  before  I  go." 

"  Hate  it !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well — but  it  has  brought  you  fame." 

"  H'm.  And  wealth  and  a  thousand  acquaint- 
ances. Yes,  that's  quite  true.  Sometimes,  never- 
theless, we  learn  in  the  end  to  hate  those  who 
have  brought  us  most.  Perhaps,  because  they 
have  educated  us  in  the  understanding  of  disap- 
pointment.    You  love  the  sea?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  wouldn't  be  here  otherwise." 

"  I  did  not  come  here  exactly  because  of  that," 
Uniacke  said  slowly. 

"  No,"  said  the  painter. 


12  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Rather  to  forget  something." 

"  I  doubt  if  this  is  a  place  which  could  teach 
one  to  forget.     I  find  it  quite  otherwise." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  the  elderly 
painter  on  his  height  of  fame,  the  young  clergyman 
in  his  depth  of  obscurity,  and  each  felt  that 
there  was  a  likeness  between  them. 

"  I  came  here  to  forget  a  woman,"  Uniackesaid 
at    last,   moved    by  a    strange  impulse  to  speak 

out. 

"Yes,  I  see.  It  is  the  old  idea  of  sorrowful 
men,  a  hermitage.  I  have  often  wondered  in  Lon- 
don, in  Rome,  in  Athens,  whether  a  hermitage  is 
of  any  avail.  Men  went  out  into  the  desert  in  old 
days.  Legend  has  it  that  holiness  alone  guided 
them  there.  All  their  disciples  believed  that. 
Reading  about  them  I  have  often  doubted  it." 

He  smiled  rather  coldly  and  cynically. 

"  You  don't  know  what  a  hermitage  can  mean. 
You  have  only  been  here  three  days.  Besides, 
you  come  in  search  of — " 

"  Search  !  "  Hamilton  interrupted,  with  an  un- 
usual quickness. 

"  Of  work  and  health." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Do  you  care,  since  we  are  on  inti- 
mate topics,  to  tell  me  any  more  about  yourself 
and — and — " 

"  That  woman  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  loved  her.  She  disappeared  out  of  my  life. 
I  don't  know  at  all  where  she  is,  with  whom,  how 


THE    RAINBOW.  13 

she  lives,  anything  at  all  about  her.     I  don't  sup- 
pose I  ever  shall.     She  may  be  dead." 

"You  don't  think  you  would  know  it  if  she 
were  r 

"  How  could  I  ?     Who  would  tell  me?  " 
"  Not  something  within  you  ?     Not  yourself  ?  " 
Uniacke  was  surprised  by  this  remark.     It  did 
not    fit    in    precisely   with   his  conception  of  his 
guest's  mind,  so  far  as  he  had  formed  one. 

"  Such  an  idea  never  occurred  to  me,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  believe  that  such  an  absolute  certainty 
could  be  put  into  a  man's  mind  then,  without  a 
reason,  a   scrap  of    evidence,  a  hint   to    eye,  or 

"  I  don't  know.     I — I  want  to  know." 

"  That  someone's  dead  ?  " 

"  That  someone  is  not  dead.  How  loud  the  sea 
is  getting !  " 

"  It  always  sounds  much  like  that  at  night  in 
winter." 

"  Does  the  winter  not  seem  very  long  to  you  up 
here  quite  alone  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Anrl  monotonous?" 

"Often.  But  wc  have  times  of  keen  excite- 
ment, of  violent,  even  of  exhausting  activity.  I 
have  had  to  rush  from  the  pulpit  up  to  my  shoul- 
ders in  the  sea." 

"A  wreck?" 

"Yes,  there  have  been  many.  There  was  the 
schooner   '  Flying    Fish.'     She  broke  up  when   I 


14  TONGU?:S   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

was  holding  service  one  December  morning.  Only 
the  skipper  was  saved  alive.     And  he — " 

"  What  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  went  what  the  people  here  call '  silly  '  from 
the  shock — not  directly.  It  came  on  him  gradu- 
ally. He  would  not  leave  the  island.  He  would 
never  trust  the  sea  again." 

"  So  he's  here  still  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Just  then  the  two  plaintive  bells  of  the  church 
began  to  ring  on  the  wind. 

"  There  he  is  !  "  Uniacke  said. 

"Where?" 

"  He's  our  bell-ringer.  It's  the  only  thing  he 
takes  any  pleasure  in,  ringing  the  bells  for  church 
and  at  nightfall.  I  let  him  do  it,  poor  fellow.  He's 
got  a  queer  idea  into  his  brain  that  his  drowned 
mates  will  hear  the  bells  some  night  and  make  the 
land,  guided  by  the  sound.  When  the  darkness 
falls  he  always  rings  for  a  full  hour." 

"  How  strange  !     How  terrible  !  " 

They  sat  by  the  fire  listening  to  the  pathetic 
chime  of  the  two  bells,  whose  voices  were  almost 
hidden  in  the  loud  sea  voices  that  enveloped  the 
little  island  with  their  cries.  Presently  the  painter 
shifted  in  his  armchair. 

"  There  is  something — I — there  is  something 
very  eerie  to  me  in  the  sound  of  those  two 
bells  now  I  know  why  they  are  ringing,  and  who 
is  ringing  them,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  irritation. 
"  Don't  you  find  they  affect  your  nerves  at  all  ?  " 


THE    RAINBOW.  15 

"  No.  I  like  to  hear  them."  They  tell  me  that 
one  poor  creature  is  happy.  The  Skipper — all  we 
Island  folk  call  him  so — believes  he  will  bring  his 
mates  safe  to  shore  some  day.  And  each  time  he 
sets  those  bells  going  he  thinks  the  happy  hour  is 
perhaps  close  at  hand." 

"  Poor  fellow !  And  he  is  summoning  the 
drowned  to  come  up  out  of  their  world." 

They  sat  silent  again  for  three  or  four  minutes. 
Then  Sir  Graham  said  : 

"  Uniacke,  you  have  finished  your  tea?  " 

"  Yes,  Sir  Graham." 

"  Has  your  day's  work  tired  you  very  much  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  would  do  me  a  favour.  I 
want  to  see  your  skipper.  Can  I  get  into  the 
church  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  always  leaves  the  door  wide  open 
while  he  rings  the  bells — so  that  his  mates  can 
come  in  from  the  sea  to  him." 

"  Poor  fellow  !     Poor  fellow  ! 

He  got  up. 

"  I  .shall  go  across  to  the  church  now,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  take  you  there.  Wrap  yourself  up.  It's 
cold  to-night." 

"  It  is  very  cold." 

The  painter  pulled  a  great  cloak  over  his  shoul- 
ders and  a  cap  down  over  his  glittering  and  melan- 
choly eyes,  that  had  watched  for  many  years  all 
the  subtle  changes  of  thccolour  and  the  movement 
of  the  sea.     Uniacke  opened  the  Vicarage  door 


l6  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

and  they  stood  in  the  wind.  The  night  was  not 
dark,  but  one  of  those  wan  and  light  grey  nights 
that  seem  painted  with  the  very  hues  of  wind  and 
of  cloud.  It  was  like  a  fluid  round  about  them, 
and  surely  flowed  hither  and  thither,  now  swaying 
quietly,  now  spreading  away,  shredded  out  as  water 
that  is  split  by  hard  substances.  It  was  full  of 
noise  as  is  a  whirlpool,  in  which  melancholy  cries 
resound  forever.  Above  this  noise  the  notes  of 
the  two  bells  alternated  like  the  voices  of  stars  in 
a  stormy  sky. 

"  Even  living  men  at  sea  to-night  would  not 
hear  those  bells,"  said  the  painter.  "  And  the 
drowned — how  can  they  hear  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  the  clergyman.  "  Perhaps 
they  are  allowed  to  hear  them  and  to  offer  up 
prayers  for  their  faithful  comrade.  I  think  faith- 
fulness is  heaven  in  a  human  heart." 

They  moved  across  the  churchyard,  and  all  the 
graves  of  the  drowned  flickered  round  their  feet 
in  the  gusty  greyness.  They  passed  Jack  Pringle's 
grave,  where  the  "  Kindly  Light  "  lay  in  the  stone. 
When  they  gained  the  church  Sir  Graham  saw 
that  the  door  was  set  wide  open  to  the  night.  He 
stood  still. 

"  And  so  those  dead  mariners  are  to  pass  in 
here,"  he  said,  "  under  this  porch.  Uniacke,  can- 
not you  imagine  the  scene  if  they  came  ?  Those 
dead  men,  with  their  white,  sea-washed  faces,  their 
dripping  bodies,  their  wild  eyes  that  had  looked  on 
the  depths  of  the  sea,  their  hanging  hands  round 
which  the  fishes  had  nibbled  with  their  oval  lips  ! 


THE    RAINBOW.  I'] 

The  procession  of  the  drowned  to  their  faithful 
captain.  If  I  stood  here  long  enough  alone  my 
imagination  would  hear  them,  would  hear  their 
ghostly  boat  grate  its  keel  upon  the  Island  beach, 
and  the  tramp  of  their  sodden  sea-boots.  How 
many  were  there?" 

"  I  never  heard.  Only  one  body  was  cast  up, 
and  that  is  buried  by  the  churchyard  wall.  Shall 
we  go  in  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  entered  through  the  black  doorway. 
The  church  was  very  dim  and  smelt  musty 
and  venerable,  rather  as  the  cover  of  an  old  and 
worn  Bible  smells.  And  now  that  they  were 
within  it,  the  bells  sounded  different,  less  magical, 
more  full  of  human  music ;  their  ofifice — the  sum- 
moning of  men  to  pray,  the  benediction  of  the 
marriage  tie,  the  speeding  of  the  departed  on  the 
eternal  road — became  apparent  and  evoked  accus- 
tomed thoughts. 

"  Where  is  the  belfry?  "  said  Sir  Graham  in  a 
whisper. 

"  This  way.  We  have  to  pass  the  vestry  and 
go  up  a  stone  staircase." 

Uniaclce  moved  forward  along  the  uncarpcted 
pavement,  on  which  his  feet,  in  their  big  nailed 
boots,  rang  harshly.  The  painter  followed  him 
through  a  low  and  narrow  door  which  gave  on  to 
a  tiny  stairway,  each  step  of  which  was  dented  and 
crumbled  at  the  uneven  edge.  They  ascended  in 
the  dark,  not  without    frequent    stumbling,    and 


l8  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

heard  always  the  bells  which  seemed  sinking  down 
to  them  from  the  sky.  Presently  a  turn  brought 
them  to  a  pale  ray  of  light  which  lay  like  a  thread 
upon  the  stone.  At  the  same  moment  the  bells 
ceased  to  sound.  Both  Uniacke  and  Sir  Graham 
paused  simultaneously,  the  vision  of  the  light  and 
the  cessation  of  the  chimes  holding  them  still  for 
an  instant  almost  without  their  knowledge.  There 
was  a  silence  that  was  nearly  complete,  for  the 
tower  walls  were  thick,  and  kept  the  sea  voices  and 
the  blowing  winds  at  bay.  And  while  they  waited, 
involuntarily  holding  their  breath,  a  hoarse  and 
uneven  voice  cried  out,  anxiously  and  hopefully 
from  above : 

"  Are  ye  comin*,  mates?  Areyecomin'?  Heave 
along,  boys!  D'ye  hear  me!  I'm  your  skipper. 
Heave  along  !  " 

Uniacke  half  turned  to  the  painter,  whose  face 
was  very  white. 

"  What  are  ye  waitin'  for  ?  "  continued  the  voice. 
"  I  heard  ye  comin*.  I  heard  ye  at  the  door. 
Come  up,  I  say,  and  welcome  to  ye !  Welcome 
to  ye  all,  mates.  Ye've  been  a  damned  long  time 
comin'." 

"  He  thinks — he  thinks — "  whispered  Uniacke 
to  his  companion. 

"  I  know.     It's  cruel.     What  shall  we—" 

"  Ye've  made  the  land  just  in  time,  mates,"  con- 
tinued the  voice.  "  For  there's  a  great  gale  comin' 
up  to-night.  The  '  Flying  Fish  '  couldn't  live  in 
her  under  bare  poles,  I  reckon.  I'm  glad  ye've 
got  ashore.    Where  are  ye,  I  say  ?  Where  are  ye  ?  " 


THE    RAINBOW.  IQ 

The  sound  of  the  voice  approached  the  two  men 
on  the  stairs.  The  thread  of  Hght  broadened  and 
danced  on  the  stone.  High  up  there  appeared  the 
great  figure  of  a  man  in  a  seaman's  jersey  with  a 
peaked  cap  on  his  head.  In  his  broad  rough  hands 
he  held  a  candle,  which  he  shaded  with  his  fingers 
while  he  peered  anxiously  and  expectantly  down 
the  dark  and  narrow  funnel  of  the  stairway. 

"  Hulloh  !  "  he  cried.     "  Hulloh,  there  !  " 

The  hail  rang  down  in  the  night.  Sir  Graham 
was  trembling. 

"  I  see  ye,"  cried  the  Skipper.  "  It's  Jack,  eh  ? 
Isn't  it  little  Jack,  boys  ?  Young  monkey!  Up 
to  his  damned  larks  that  I've  reckoned  up  these 
many  nights  while  I've  stood  ringin*  here  !  I'll 
strike  the  life  out  of  ye.  Jack,  I  will.  Wait  till  I 
come  down,  lads,  wait  till  I  come  down  !  " 

And  he  sprang  forward,  his  huge  limbs  shaking 
with  glad  excitement.  His  feet  missed  a  stair  in 
his  hurry  of  approach,  and  throwing  abroad  his 
hands  to  the  stone  walls  of  the  belfry  in  an  effort 
to  save  himself,  he  let  fall  the  candlestick.  It 
dropped  on  the  stones  with  a  dull  clatter  as  the 
darkness  closed  in.  The  Skipper,  who  had  re- 
covered his  footing,  swore  a  round  oath.  Sir  Gra- 
ham and  Uniacke  heard  his  heavy  tread  descend- 
ing until  his  breath  was  warm  on  their  faces. 

"  Where  are  ye,  lads  ?  "  he  cried  out.  "  Where 
arc  ye  ?  Can't  ye  throw  a  word  of  welcome  to  a 
mate  ?  " 

He  laid  his  hands  heavily  on   Uniacke's   shoul- 


20  TONGUES   OF     CONSCIENCE. 

ders  in  the  dark,  and  felt  him  over  with  an  uncer- 
tain touch. 

•'  Is  it  Jack  ?  "  he  said.  "  Why,  what  'a  ye  got 
on,  lad  ?     Is  it  Jack,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Skipper,"  Uniacke  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "it's 
not  Jack."  As  he  spoke  he  struck  a  match.  The 
tiny  light  flared  up  unevenly  right  in  the  Skipper's 
eyes.  They  were  sea-blue  and  blazing  with  eager- 
ness and  with  the  pitiful  glare  of  madness.  Over 
the  clergyman's  shoulder  the  pale  painter  with  his 
keen  eyes  swept  the  bearded  face  of  the  Skipper 
with  a  rapid  and  greedy  glance.  By  the  time  the 
match  dwindled  and  the  blackness  closed  in  again 
the  face  was  a  possession  of  his  memory.  He  saw 
it  even  though  it  was  actually  invisible  ;  the  rugged 
features  dignified  by  madness,  the  clear,  blue  eyes 
full  of  a  saddening  fire,  and — ere  the  match  faded 
— of  a  horror  of  disappointment,  the  curling  brown 
beard  that  flowed  down  on  the  blue  jersey.  But 
he  had  no  time  to  dwell  on  it  now,  for  a  dreary 
noise  rose  up  in  that  confined  space.  It  was  the 
great  seaman  whimpering  pitifully  in  the  dark. 

"  It  isn't  Jack,"  he  blubbered,  and  they  could 
hear  his  huge  limbs  shaking.  "  Ye  haven't  come 
back,  mates,  ye  haven't  come  back.  And  the 
great  gale  comin'  up,  the  great  gale  comin'." 

As  the  words  died  away,  a  gust  of  wind  caught 
the  belfry  and  tore  at  its  rough-hewn  and  weather- 
worn stones. 

"  Let  us  go  down,"  said  Sir  Graham,  turning  to 
feel  his  way  into  the  church. 


THE    RAINBOW.  21 

"Come,  Skipper,"  said  Uniacke,  "come  with 
us." 

He  laid  hold  of  the  seaman's  mighty  arm  and 
led  him  down  the  stairs.  He  said  nothing.  On 
a  sudden  all  the  life  and  hope  had  died  out  of 
him.  When  they  gained  the  grey  churchyard 
and  could  see  his  face  again  in  the  pale  and  stormy 
light,  it  looked  shrunken,  peaked  and  childish,  and 
the  curious  elevation  of  madness  was  replaced  by 
the  uncertainty  and  weakness  of  idiocy.  He 
shifted  on  his  feet  and  would  not  meet  the  pitiful 
glances  of  the  two  men.  Uniacke  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Come  to  the  Vicarage,  Skipper,"  he  said  kind- 
ly. "  Come  in  and  warm  yourself  by  the  fire  and 
have  some  food.     It's  so  cold  to-night." 

But  the  seaman  suddenly  broke  away  and 
stumbled  off  among  the  gravestones,  whimpering 
foolishly  like  a  dog  that  cannot  fight  grief  with 
thought. 

"  The  sea — ah,  the  hatefulness  of  the  .sea  !  "  said 
the  painter,  "  will  it  ever  have  to  answer  for  its 
crimes  before  God  ?  " 

Uniacke  and  his  guest  sat  at  supper  that  night, 
and  all  the  windows  of  the  Vicarage  rattled  in 
the  storm.  The  great  guns  of  the  wind  roared 
in  the  sky.  The  great  guns  of  the  surf  roared  on 
the  islancJ  beaches.  And  the  two  men  were  very 
silent  at  first.  I-iir.  Graham  ate  little.  He  had 
no  appetite,  for  he  seemed  to  hear  continually  in 
the  noises  of   the    elements  the  shrill  whimpering 


22  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

of  a  dog.  Surely  it  came  from  the  graves  outside, 
from  those  stone  breasts  of  the  dead. 

"  I  can't  cat  to-night,"  he  said  presently.  "  Do 
you  think  that  man  is  lingering  about  the  church 
still?" 

They  got  up  from  the  table  and  went  over  to 
the  fire.     The  painter  lit  a  pipe. 

"  I  hope  not,"  Uniacke  said,  "  but  it  is  useless 
attempting  to  govern  him.  He  is  harmless,  but 
he  must  be  left  alone.  He  cannot  endure  being 
watched  or  followed." 

"  I  wish  we  hadn't  gone  to  the  church.  I  can't 
get  over  our  cruelty." 

"  It  was  inadvertent." 

"Cruelty  so  often  is,  Uniacke.  But  we  ought 
to  look  forward  and  foresee  consequences.  I  feel 
that  most  especially  to-night.  Remorse  is  the 
wage  of  inadvertence." 

As  he  spoke,  he  looked  gloomily  into  the  fire. 
The  young  clergyman  felt  oddly  certain  that  the 
great  man  had  more  to  say,  and  did  not  interrupt 
his  pause,  but  filled  it  in  for  himself  by  priestly 
considerations  on  the  useless  illumination  worldly 
success  seems  generally  to  afford  to  the  searchers 
after  happiness.  His  reverie  was  broken  by  the 
painter's  voice  saying : 

"  I  myself,  Uniacke,  am  curiously  persecuted  by 
remorse.  It  is  that,  or  partly  that,  which  has 
affected  my  health  so  gravely,  and  led  me  away 
Irom  my  home,  my  usual  habits  of  life,  at  this  sea- 
son of  the  year.  " 


THE    RAINBOW.  23 

"Yes? "the  clergyman  said,  with  sympathy, 
without  curiosity. 

"  And  yet,  I  suppose  it  would  seem  a  little  mat- 
ter  to  most  people.  The  odd  thing  is  that  it 
assumes  such  paramount  importance  in  my  life  ; 
for  I'm  not  what  is  called  specially  conscientious, 
except  as  regards  my  art,  of  course,  and  the  ordi- 
nary honourable  dealings  onedecent  man  naturally 
has  with  his  fellows." 

"  Your  conscience,  in  fact,  limits  its  operations  a 
good  deal,  I  know." 

"  Precisely.  But  if  it  will  not  bore  you,  I  will 
tell  you  something  of  all  this." 

"  Thank  you.  Sir  Graham." 

"  How  the  wind  shakes  those  curtains  !  " 

"  Nothing  will  keep  it  out  of  these  island 
houses.     You  aren't  cold  ?  " 

"  Not  in  body,  not  a  bit.  Well,  Uniacke,  do 
you  ever  go  to  see  pictures  ?  " 

"  Whenever  I  can.  That's  not  often  now.  But 
when  my  work  lay  in  cities  I  had  chances  which 
are  denied  me  at  present." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  picture  of  mine  called  '  A 
sea  urchin  '  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed — that  boy  looking  at  the  waves 
rolling  in  ! — who  could  forget  him  ?  The  soul  of 
the  sea  was  in  his  eyes.  He  was  a  human  being, 
and  yet  he  seemed  made  of  all  sea  things," 

"  He  had  never  set  eyes  upon  the  sea." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Uniacke,  in  sheer  astonishment, 
"  the  boy  who  sat  for  that  picture?     Impossible! 


24  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

When  I  saw  it  I  felt  that  you  had  by  some  happy 
chance  lit  on  the  one  human  being  who  contained 
the  very  soul  of  an  element.  No  merman  could 
so  belong  of  right  to  the  sea  as  that  boy." 

"  Who  was  a  London  model,  and  had  never 
heard  the  roar  of  waves  or  seen  the  surf  break  in 
the  wind." 

"  Genius  !  "  the  clergyman  exclaimed. 

"  Uniacke,"  continued  the  painter,  "I  got;^i,ooo 
for  that  picture.  And  I  call  the  money  now  blood- 
money  to  myself." 

"  Blood-money  !     But  why  ?  " 

"  I  had  made  studies  of  the  sea  for  that  picture. 
I  had  indicated  the  wind  by  the  shapes  of  the 
flying  foam  journeying  inland  to  sink  on  the 
fields.  I  wanted  my  figure,  I  could  not  find  him. 
Yet  I  was  in  a  sea  village  among  sea  folk.  The 
children's  legs  there  were  browned  with  the  salt 
water.  They  had  clear  blue  eyes,  sea  eyes ; 
that  curious  light  hair  which  one  associates  with 
the  sea  and  with  spun  glass  sometimes.  But  they 
wouldn't  do  for  my  purpose.  They  were  un- 
imaginative. As  a  fact,  Uniacke,  they  knew  the 
sea  too  well.  That  was  it.  They  were  familiar 
with  it,  as  the  little  London  clerk  is  familiar  with 
Fleet  Street  orChancery  Lane.  The  twin  brother 
of  a  prophet  thinks  prophecy  boring  table-talk — 
not  revelation.  These  children  chucked  the  sea 
under  the  chin.  That  didn't  do  for  me,  and  for 
what  I  wanted." 

"  I  understand." 


THE    RAINBOW.  2$ 

"  After  a  great  deal  of  search  and  worry  I  came 
to  this  conclusion:  that  my  purpose  required  of 
me  this — the  discovery  of  an  exceptionally  imagi- 
native child,  who  was  unfamiliar  with  the  sea,  but 
into  whose  heart  and  brain  I  could  pour  its  nar- 
rated wonders,  whose  soul  I  could  fill  to  the  brim 
with  its  awe,  its  majesty,  its  murmuring  sweet- 
ness, its  wild  romance  and  its  inexhaustible  cruelty. 
I  must  make  this  child  see  and  know,  but  through 
the  medium  of  words  alone,  of  mental  vision.  If 
I  took  it  to  the  sea  the  imagination  would  be 
stricken  down — well,  by  such  banalities  as  pad- 
dling and  catching  shrimps." 

Uniacke  smiled. 

"  But  on  the  contrary,  in  London,  far  from  the 
sea,  I  could  give  to  the  child  only  those  impres- 
sions of  the  sea  that  would  wake  in  it  the  sort  of 
sea-soul  I  desired  to  print.  I  should  have  it  in 
my  power.  And  a  cliild's  soul  cannot  be  gov- 
erned by  a  mere  painter,  when  a  conflict  arises 
between  him  and  sand-castles  and  crabs  and 
prawns  and  the  various  magicians  of  the  kind  that 
obsess  the  child  so  easily  and  so  entirely." 

"Yes,  children  are  conquered  by  trifles." 

"  And  that,  too,  is  part  of  their  beauty.  Under 
this  strong  impression,  I  packed  up  my  traps  and 
came  back  to  London  with  the  studies  for  my  pic- 
ture. I  placed  them  on  an  easel  in  my  studio  and 
began  my  search  for  the  child.  At  first  I  sought 
this  child  among  my  cultivated  friends  ;  married 
artists,  musicians,  highly-strung  people,  whose  lives 


26  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

were  passed  in  an  atmosphere  vibrating  with  quick 
impressions.  But  I  went  unrewarded.  The  chil- 
dren of  such  people  arc  apt  to  be  peevishly  recept- 
ive, but  their  moods  are  often  cloudy,  and  I  wished 
for  a  pellucid  nature.  After  a  time  I  went  lower 
down,  and  I  began  to  look  about  the  .streets  for 
my  wonder-child." 

"  What  a  curious  quest !  "  said  Uniacke,  leaning 
forward  till  the  firelight  danced  on  his  thin  face 
and  was  reflected  in  his  thoughtful  hazel  eyes. 

"Yes,  it  was,"  rejoined  the  painter,  who  was 
gradually  sinking  into  his  own  narrative,  dropping 
down  in  the  soft  realm  of  old  thoughts  revived. 
"  It  was  curious,  and  to  me,  highly  romantic.  I 
sometimes  thought  it  was  like  seeking  for  a  hid- 
den sea  far  inland,  watching  for  the  white  face  of 
a  little  wave  in  the  hard  and  iron  city  thorough- 
fares. Sometimes  I  stopped  near  Victoria  Station, 
put  my  foot  upon  a  block,  and  had  a  boot  half 
ruined  while  I  watched  the  bootblack.  Some- 
times I  bought  a  variety  of  evening  papers  from  a 
ragged  gnome  who  might  be  a  wonder-child,  and 
made  mistakes  over  the  payment  to  prolong  the 
interview.  I  leaned  against  gaunt  houses  and 
saw  the  dancing  waifs  yield  their  poor  lives  to 
ugly,  hag-ridden  music.  I  endured  the  wailing 
hymns  of  voiceless  women  on  winter  days  in  order 
that  I  might  observe  the  wretched  ragamufifins 
squalling  round  their  knees  the  praise  of  a  Creator 
who  had  denied  them  everything.  Ah  !  forgive 
me!" 


THE    RAINBOW.  27 

"  For  some  purpose  that  we  shall  all  know  at 
last,"  said  Uniacke  gently. 

"  Possibly.  In  all  these  prospectings  I  was  un- 
lucky.  By  chance  at  length  I  found  the  wonder- 
child  when  I  was  not  seeking  him." 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  One  day  the  weather,  which  had  been  cold, 
changed  and  became  warm,  springlike,  and  alive 
with  showers.  When  it  was  not  raining,  you  felt 
the  rain  was  watching  you  from  hidden  places. 
You  smelt  it  in  the  air.  The  atmosphere  was  very 
sweet  and  depressing,  and  London  was  full  of  faint 
undercurrents  of  romance,  and  of  soft  and  rapidly 
changing  effects  of  light.  I  went  out  in  the  after- 
noon and  spent  an  hour  in  the  National  Gallcr)\ 
When  I  came  out  my  mind  was  so  full  of  painted 
canvas  that  I  never  looked  at  the  unpainted  sky, 
or  at  the  vaporous  Square  through  which  streamed 
the  World,  opening  and  shutting  umbrellas.  I 
believe  I  was  thinking  over  some  new  work  of  my 
own,  arranged  for  the  future.  Now  the  rain 
ceased,  I  went  down  the  steps  and  walked  across 
the  road  into  the  stone  garden  of  the  lions.  Round 
their  feet  played  pigmy  children.  I  heard  their 
cries  mingling  with  the  splash  of  tlie  fountains, 
but  I  took  no  notice  of  them.  Sitting  down  on  a 
bench,  I  went  on  planning  a  picture — the  legen- 
dary masterpiece,  no  doubt.  I  was  certainly  very 
deep  in  thought  and  lost  to  my  surroundings, 
for  when  a  hand  suddenly  grasped  my  knee  I  was 
startled.     I    looked   up.     In   front  of  mc  stood  a 


28  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

very  dirty  and  atrociously-dressed  boy,  whose 
head  was  decorated  with  a  tall,  muddy  paper 
cap,  funnel-shaped  and  bending  feebly  in  the 
breeze.  This  boy  was  clutching  my  knee  tightly 
with  one  filthy  hand,  while  with  the  other  he 
pointed  to  the  sky  on  which  his  eyes  were  in- 
tently fixed. 

"  '  Look  at  that  there  rainbow  !  '  he  said.  *  Look 
at  that  there  rainbow  1 ' 

"  I  glanced  up  and  saw  that  the  clouds  had  par- 
tially broken  and  that  London  lay  under  a  huge 
and  perfect  coloured  arch. 

"  '  I  never  did  !  '  continued  the  boy. 

"  He  stared  at  me  for  an  instant  with  the  solemn 
expression  of  one  who  reveals  to  the  ignorant  a 
miracle.  Then  he  took  his  hand  from  my  knee, 
hurried  to  an  adjoining  seat,  woke  up  a  sleeping 
and  partially  intoxicated  tramp,  requested  him  to 
observe  closely  the  superb  proceedings  of  Nature, 
took  no  heed  of  his  flooding  oaths,  and  passed  on 
in  the  waving  paper  cap  from  seat  to  seat,  rousing 
from  their  dreams,  and  sorrows,  and  newspapers, 
the  astounded  habitues  of  the  Square,  that  they 
might  share  his  awe  and  happiness.  Before  he 
had  finished  teaching  a  heavy  policeman  the  les- 
sons of  the  sky,  I  knew  that  I  had  found  my 
wonder-child." 

"  You  followed  him  ?  " 

"  I  captured  him  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of 
emaciated  little  girls  in  the  shadow  of  Lord 
Nelson.     All  the  childish  crowd  was  looking  up- 


THE    RAINBOW.  29 

ward,  and  every  eye  was  completely  round  over 
each  widely-opened  mouth,  while  paper-cap  re- 
peated his  formula.  Poor  children,  looking  at  the 
sky !  Ah,  Uniacke,  what  do  you  think  of  that 
for  a  sermon  ?  " 

The  young  clergyman  cleared  his  throat.  The 
red  curtains  by  the  narrow  window  blew  outward 
towards  the  fire,  and  sank  in  again,  alternately 
forcible  and  weak.  The  painter  looked  towards 
the  window  and  a  sadness  deepened  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Where  is  my  wonder-child  now  ? "  he 
said. 

"You  have  lost  sight  of  him  ?  " 

"Yes — though  the  blood-money  lies  at  my  bank 
and  the  paper-cap  is  in  my  studio." 

"  Is  he  not  in  London  ?  " 

"No,  no;  I  learnt  his  history,  the  history  of  a 
gamin  of  fifteen  or  thereabouts.  It  was  much  the 
same  as  a  history  of  a  London  pavement,  with 
this  exception,  that  the  gamin  had  a  mother  to 
whom  he  presented  me  without  undue  formality. 
The  impression  made  upon  me  by  that  lady  at 
first  was  unfavourable,  since  she  was  slatternly, 
drank,  and  was  apparently  given  to  cuffing  and 
lacking  the  boy — her  only  child.  I  considered  her 
an  abandoned  and  unfeeling  female.  She  dwelt 
in  Drury  Lane  and  sold  somelhing  that  most  of 
us  have  never  heard  of." 

"  I  can  see  her," 


30  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  I  could   not,"  the  painter 
said,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  fire. 

He  was  silent  a  moment  and  then  continued: 
"  I  had  no  difificulty  in  persuading  her  to  let  me 
paint  the  boy.     I   don't   think  she  rightly  under- 
stood what  I  meant,  except  that  for  some  foolish 
reason  I  was  prepared   to  give  her  money,   ap- 
parently in  return  for  nothing,  that  I  meant  to 
have  little  Jack  decently  dressed — " 
"  Jack — was  that  his  name?" 
"Yes,  and  that  he  was  to  spend  certain  hours — 
snatched  from  Trafalgar  Square — in  my  house  in 
Kensington." 
"  I  see." 

"  The  boy  turned  up  in  the  jersey  and  cap  and 
boots  I  had  bought  him.  And  then  his  education 
began.  On  first  entering  my  studio  he  was  numb 
with  surprise,  a  moving  and  speechless  stare — 
more  overcome  than  by  rainbows." 
"  Poor  little  chap  !  " 

"  I  let  him  stray  about  examining  everything. 
He  did  so  completely  oblivious  of  my  presence, 
and  of  the  fact  that  all  the  things  in  the  place 
were  mine.  By  his  demeanour  one  might  have 
supposed  him  engaged  in  an  examination  of 
works  of  God  never  before  brought  to  his  notice. 
While  I  smoked  and  pretended  to  read,  he  crept 
about  like  a  little  animal,  penetrating  into  corners 
where  statues  stood,  smelling — so  it  seemed — 
the  angles  of  painted  walls,  touching  the  petals  of 
flowers,  smoothing  rugs  the  wrong — but  soon  the 


THE    rL\INBOW.  3 1 

right — way.  I  can  hear  his  new  boots  creaking 
still.  He  was  a  very  muscular  little  chap,  but  small. 
When  he  was  able  to  speak  I  questioned  him. 
He  had  never  seen  the  sea.  He  had  never  been 
out  of  London  for  a  day  or  slept  away  from  Drury 
Lane  for  a  night.  The  flask  was  empty  ;  now  to 
pour  the  wine  into  it.  I  told  him  to  sit  down 
by  the  open  hearth.  He  obeyed,  staring  hard  at 
me  before  he  sat,  hard  at  the  chair  when  he  was 
sitting.  I  interested  him  much  less  than  old  bro- 
cade and  lighted  wax  candles,  which  inspired  him 
with  a  solemnity  that  widened  his  eyes  and  nar- 
rowed his  features.  He  looked  on  a  new,  and 
never-before-imagined,  life.  And  he  was  grave  to 
excess,  though,  later,  I  found  plenty  of  the  Lon- 
don child's  impish  nature  in  him." 

"That  impish  quality  hides  in  nearly  all  street- 
bred  children,"  said  Uniacke.  "  I  have  seen  larki- 
ness  dawn  in  them  for  an  instant  at  some  recollec- 
tion, even  when  they  were  dying." 

"  I  daresay.  I  can  believe  it.  But  Jack  was  sol- 
emn at  first,  his  brow  thunderous  with  thought,  as 
he  examined  his  chair  and  the  rug  under  his  new 
boots.  Then  in  the  firelight  I  began  my  task.  I 
wrought  to  bring  about  in  this  Trafalgar  Square 
soul  a  sea  change.  For  a  time  I  did  not  attempt 
to  paint.  I  merely  let  the  boy  come  to  mc  day 
by  day,  get  accustomed  to  the  studio,  and  listen  to 
my  talk — which  was  often  of  the  sea,  I  very  .soon 
found  that  my  intention  had  led  mc  to  the  right 
mind   for  my  purpose ;  for  the  starved  gaze  that 


32  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

had  been  fixed  on  the  rainbow  could  turn  itself, 
with  equal  wonder,  similar  rapture,  on  other  things. 
And  the  mind  also  could  be  brought  to  sec  what 
was  not  visible  to  the  eye.     My  studio — you  must 
see  it  some  day — is  full  of  recollections  of  sea  days 
and  nights.     Jack  explored  them.     I  eliminated 
from   the  studio  important  objects  of  art  which 
might  lead  him  to  think  of  towns,  of  villages  in- 
land, of  wonderful  foreign  interiors.     I  fixed  all 
his  nature  upon  thismarvellouselement  which  had 
never  murmured  round  his  life  before.     I  played  to 
him  music  in  which  the  sea  could  be  heard.     I  de- 
scribed to  him  the  onward   gallop  of  the  white 
horses,  racing  over  impenetrable  depths.    I  painted 
for  him  in  words  the  varying  colours  of  waves  in 
different  seas,  the  black  purple  of  tropical  waters, 
the  bottle-green  turmoil  of   a  Cornish  sea    on   a 
choppy  day,  the  brown  channel  waves  near  shore, 
the  jewelled  smoothness  of  the  Mediterranean  in 
early   morning  sunshine,   its  silver  in    moonrise, 
melting  into  white  and  black.     I  told  him  of  the 
crowd  of  voices  that  cry  in  the  sea,  expressing  all 
the  emotions  which  are  uttered  on  land  by  the 
voices  of  men ;  of  the  childish  voices  that  may  be 
heard  on  August  evenings  in  fiords,  of  the  solemn 
sobbing  that  fills  an  autumn  night  on  the  North- 
umbrian coast,  of  the  passionate  roaring  in  mid 
Atlantic,  of   the  peculiar  and    frigid  whisper  of 
waters  struggling  to  break  from  the  tightening 
embrace  of  ice  in  extreme  northern  latitudes,  of 
the  level  moan  of  tlic  lagoons.     I  explained  to 


THE    RAINBOW.  33 

him  how  this  element  is  so  much  alive  that  it  is 
never  for  a  moment  absolutely  still,  even  when  it 
seems  so  to  the  eyes,  as  it  sleeps  within  the 
charmed  embrace  of  a  coral  reef,  extended,  like 
an  arm,  by  some  Pacific  island  far  away.  I  drew 
for  him  the  thoughts  of  the  sea,  its  intentions,  its 
desires,  its  regrets,  its  griefs,  its  savage  and  its  quiet 
joys.  I  narrated  the  lives  in  it,  of  fishes,  of  mon- 
sters ;  its  wonders  of  half  human  lives,  too,  the  mer- 
maids who  lie  on  the  rocks  at  night  to  see  the 
twinkling  lights  on  land,  the  mermen  who  swim 
round  them,  wondering  what  those  lights  may 
mean.  I  made  him  walk  with  me  on  the  land 
under  the  sea,  where  go  the  divers  through  the 
wrecks,  and  ascend  the  rocky  mountains  and  pen- 
etrate the  weedy  valleys,  and  glide  across  the  slip- 
pery, oozy  plains.  In  fine,  Uniackc,  I  drowned 
little  Jack — I  drowned  him  in  the  sea,  I  drowned 
him  in  the  sea." 

The  painter  spoke  the  last  words  in  a  voice  of 
profound,  even  of  morbid,  melancholy,  as  if  he 
were  indeed  confessing  a  secret  crime,  driven  by 
some  wayward  and  irresistible  impulse.  Uniacke 
looked  at  him  in  growing  surprise. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "   Uniackc  asked. 

But  the  painter  did  not  reply.     He  continued: 

"  I  made  him  see  the  rainbows  of  the  sea  and  he 
looked  no  more  at  the  rainbows  of  tlie  sky.  For 
at  length  I  h.id  his  imagination  fast  in  my  net  as 
a  salmon  that  fishermen  entice  within  the  stakes. 
His  town  mind   seemed  to  fade  under  my  foster- 


34  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

ing,  and,  Uniacke,  '  nothing  of  him  that  did  fade 
but  did  suffer  a  sea  change  into  something  rich 
and  strange. 

Tiie  painter  got  up  from  his  chair  and  walked 
over  to  the  blowing  wind  that  crept  in  at  the 
window  fastenings.  The  red  curtains  flew  out 
towards  him.  He  pushed  them  back  with  his 
hands. 

"  *  Into  something  rich  and  strange,' "  he  re- 
peated, as  if  to  himself.     "  And  strange." 

"  Ah,  but  that  was  said,  surely,  of  one  who  was 
actually  drowned  in  the  sea,"  said  the  clergyman. 
"  It  might  be  suitably  placed  on  many  of  the  mem- 
orial slabs  in  the  church  yonder,"  he  continued, 
waving  his  hand  towards  the  casement  that  looked 
on  the  churchyard.     "  But  your  sea-urchin — " 

"  Oh,  I  speak  only  of  the  fading  of  the  town 
nature  into  the  sea  nature,"  rejoined  the  painter 
quickly,  "  only  of  that.  The  soil  of  the  childish 
mind  was  enriched  ;  his  eyes  shone  as  if  touched 
with  a  glow  from  the  sun,  swaying  in  the  blue  sea. 
The  Trafalgar  Square  gamin  disappeared,  and  at 
last  my  sea-urchin  stood  before  me.  As  the  little 
Raleigh  may  have  looked  he  looked  at  me,  and  I 
saw  in  the  face  then  rather  the  wonder  of  the  sea 
itself  than  the  crude  dancing  desire  of  the  little 
adventurer  who  would  sail  it.  And  it  was  the 
wonder  of  the  sea  embodied  in  a  child  that  I  de- 
sired to  paint,  not  the  wakening  of  a  human  spirit 
of  gay  seamanship  and  love  of  peril.  That's  for  a 
Christmas  number — but  that  came  at  last." 


THE    RAINBOW.  35 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  faced  the  clergyman. 

"  Why  does  the  second  best  succeed  so  often 
and  so  closely  the  best,  I  wonder?"  he  said.  "  It  is 
very  often  so  in  the  art  life  of  a  man,  even  of  a 
great  man.  And  it  is  so  sometimes — perhaps  you 
know  this  better  than  I — in  the  soul  life  of  a  na- 
ture. Must  we  always  sink  again  after  we  have 
soared?  Must  we  do  that?  Is  it  an  immutable 
law?" 

"  Perhaps  for  a  time.  Surely,  surely,  not  for- 
ever," said  Uniacke, 

His  guest's  conversation  and  personality  began 
to  stir  him  more  and  more  powerfully.  It  seemed 
so  new  and  vital  an  experience  to  be  helped  to 
think,  to  have  suggestion  poured  into  him  now, 
after  his  many  lonely  island  evenings. 

"  Ah,  well,  who  can  say  ?  "  said  the  painter.  "  I 
had  the  best  for  a  time — long  enough  for  my  im- 
mediate purpose ;  for  now  I  painted,  and  I  felt 
that  I  was  enabled  by  little  Jack  to  do  fine  work. 
It  seems  he  told  his  drinking  mother  in  Druiy 
Lane,  in  his  lingo,  of  the  wonders  of  the  sea.  This 
I  learnt  later.  And,  in  his  occasional,  and  now 
somewhat  fleeting  visits  to  Trafalgar  Square,  he 
explained  to  the  emaciated  little  girls,  in  the 
shadow  of  Nelson,  the  fact  that  there  was  to  be 
found,  and  seen,  somewhere,  water  of  a  \'ery  dif- 
ferent kind  from  that  splashing  and  clnirning  in 
the  dingy  basins  guarded  by  the  lions.  Mean- 
while I  painted  little  Jack,  all  the  time  keeping 
alive  in   his  nature  the  sea  change,  which  was,  in 


36  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

the  end,  to  bring  into  my  pocket  ;^  1,000  in  hard 
cash." 

Sir  Graham  said  this  with  an  indescribable  cold 
irony  and  bitterness. 

"  I  can  hear  that  money  jingling  in  the  wind, 
upon  my  soul,  Uniacke,"  he  added,  frowning 
heavily. 

The  young  clergyman  was  touched  by  a  passing 
thought  of  the  painter's  notorious  ill-health. 

"  Before  the  picture  was  finished — quite  com- 
pleted— the  impish  child  began  to  waken  in  the 
wonder-child,  and  I  had  to  comply  with  the 
demands  of  this  new-born  youngster.  Our  con- 
versation— little  Jack's  and  mine — drifted  from  the 
sea  itself  to  the  men  and  ships  that  travel  it,  to 
the  deeds  of  men  that  are  done  upon  it ;  raidings 
of  Moorish  pirates,  expeditions  to  the  Spanish 
Main  in  old  days,  to  the  whaling  grounds  in  new, 
and  so  forth.  When  we  got  to  this  sort  of  thing 
my  work  was  nearly  done  and  could  not  be  spoiled. 
So  I  let  myself  go,  and  talked  several  boys'  books 
in  those  afternoons.  I  was  satisfied,  damnably 
satisfied — your  pardon,  Uniacke — with  my  work, 
and  I  was  heedless  of  all  else.  That  is  the  cursed, 
selfish  instinct  of  the  artist ;  that  is  the  inadver- 
tence of  which  we  spoke  formerly.  You  remem- 
ber ?  " 

Uniacke  nodded. 

"  My  picture  was  before  me  and  a  child's  bud- 
ding soul,  and  I  thought  of  nothing  at  all  but  my 
picture.     That's  sin,  if  you  like.     Little  Jack,  in 


THE    RAINBOW.  37 

his  jersey  and  squeaky  boots,  with  his  pale  face 
and  great  eyes,  was  my  prey  on  canvas  and  my 
;{^  1,000.  I  hugged  myself  and  told  him  wild 
stories  of  bold  men  on  the  sea.  Uniacke,  do  you 
believe  in  a  personal  devil?" 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  young  clergyman,  simply. 

"  Well,  if  there  is  one,  depend  upon  it  he  some- 
times requires  an  introduction  before  he  can  make 
a  soul's  acquaintance.  I  effected  the  introduction 
between  him  and  my  wonder-child  when  I  sat  in 
the  twilight  and  told  Jack  those  tales  of  the  sea. 
The  devil  came  to  the  boy  in  my  studio,  and  I 
opened  the  door  and  bowed  him  in.  And  once 
he  knew  the  boy,  he  stayed  with  him,  Uniacke, 
and  whispered  in  his  ear — '  Desert  your  duty. 
Life  calls  you.  The  sea  calls  you.  Go  to  it. 
Desert  your  duty  ! '  Even  a  dirty  little  London 
boy  can  have  a  duty  and  be  aware  of  it,  I  sup- 
pose.    Eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  think  that.     But—" 

"  Wait  a  moment.  I've  nearly  finished  my  tale, 
though  I'm  living  the  sequel  to  it  at  this  moment. 
One  day  I  completed  my  picture  ;  the  last  touch 
was  given.  I  stood  back,  I  looked  at  my  canvas. 
I  felt  I  had  done  well;  my  sea  urchin  was  actually 
what  I  had  imagined.  I  had  succeeded  in  that 
curious  effort — to  accomplish  which  many  of  us 
give  our  lives — in  the  effort  to  project  perfectly 
my  thought,  to  give  the  exactly  right  form  to  my 
imagination.  I  exulted.  Yes,  I  had  one  grand 
overwhelmin<r    moment    of    exultation.       Then   I 


38  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

turned  from  my  completed  picture.  '  Jack,*  I 
cried  out,  '  little  Jack,  I've  made  you  famous. 
D'you  know  what  that  means  ? ' 

"  I  took  the  little  chap  by  the  shoulders  and 
placed  him  before  the  picture.  '  See  yourself,'  I 
added.  The  boy  stared  at  the  sea  urchin,  at  those 
painted  eyes  full  of  the  sea  wonder,  at  those  parted 
lips,  that  mouth  whispering  to  the  sea.  His  nose 
twisted  slightly. 

"  '  That  ain't  me,'  he  said.     '  That  ain't  me.* 

"  I  looked  down  at  him,  and  knew  that  he  spoke 
the  truth  ;  for  already  the  wonder-child  was  fad- 
ing, even  had  faded.  And  a  little  adventurer,  a 
true  boy,  stood  before  me,  a  boy  to  pull  ropes, 
lend  a  hand  at  an  oar,  whistle  in  the  rigging,  gaze 
with  keen  dancing  eyes  through  a  cold  dawn  to 
catch  the  first  sight  of  a  distant  land.  I  looked, 
understood,  didn't  care ;  although  the  poetry  of 
wonder  had  faded  into  the  prose  of  mere  desire. 

"  '  It  isn't  you,  Jack  ? '  I  answered.  '  Well,  per- 
haps not.  But  it  is  what  you  were,  what  you  may 
be  again  some  day.' 

"He  shook  his  head. 

" '  No,  it  ain't  me.  Go  on  tellin*  about  them 
pirits.' 

"  And,  full  of  gladness,  a  glory  I  had  never 
known  before,  I  went  on  till  it  was  dark.  I  said 
good-bye  to  little  Jack  on  the  doorstep.  When 
he  had  gone,  I  stood  for  a  moment  listening  to 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps  dying  away  down  the 
road.     I   did  not  know  that  I  should  never  hear 


THE    RAINBOW.  39 

them  again.  For,  although  I  did  not  want  Jack 
any  more  as  a  model,  I  was  resolved  not  to  lose 
sight  of  him.  To  him  I  owed  much.  I  would 
pay  my  debt  by  making  the  child's  future  very 
different  from  his  past.  I  had  vague  thoughts  of 
educating  him  carefully  for  some  reasonable  life. 
I  believe,  Uniacke,  yes,  on  my  soul,  I  believe  that 
I  had  bland  visions  of  the  sea-urchin  being  happy 
and  prosperous  on  a  high  stool  in  an  office,  at 
home  with  ledgers,  a  contented  little  clerk,  whose 
horizon  was  bounded  by  an  A  B  C  shop,  and 
whose  summer  pastime  was  fly-killing.  My  big 
work  finished,  a  sort  of  eager  idiocy  seized  me.  I 
was  as  a  man  drugged.  My  faculties  must  have 
been  besotted,  I  was  in  a  dream.  Three  days  after- 
wards I  woke  from  it  and  learned  that  there  may 
be  grandeur,  yes,  grandeur,  dramatic  in  its  force, 
tragic  in  its  height  and  depth,  in  a  tipsy  old  woman 
of  Drury  Lane." 

"  Jack's  mother  ?  " 

Thcpainter  nodded.  All  the  time  he  had  been 
talking  the  wind  had  steadily  increased,  and  the 
uproar  of  the  embracing  sea  had  been  growing 
louder.  The  windows  rattled  like  musketry,  the 
red  curtains  shook  as  if  in  fear.  Now  there  came 
a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  clergyman. 

The  maid  appeared. 

"  Do  you  want  anything  more  to-night,  sir?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Kate.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 


40  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

The  door  shut. 

"  Is  it  late  ?  "  said  the  painter. 

"  Nearly  eleven.     That  is  all." 

"  Are  you  tired,  Uniacke  ?  perhaps  you  are  ac- 
customed to  go  to  bed  early  ?  " 

"  Not  very.  Besides  to-night  the  gale  would 
keep  me  awake  ;  and  I  want  to  hear  the  end  of 
your  story." 

"  Then — Drury  Lane  invaded  me  one  evening, 
smelling  of  gin,  with  black  bonnet  cocked  over 
one  eye,  an  impossible  umbrella,  broken  boots, 
straying  hair,  a  mouth  full  of  objurgation,  and 
oaths,  and  crying  between  times,  '  Where's  Jack  ? 
Where's  my  boy  ?  What  'a  yer  done  with  my 
boy, — yer  !  '  I  received  Drury  Lane  with  aston- 
ishment but,  I  hope,  with  courtesy,  and  explained 
that  my  picture  was  finished,  that  Jack  had  left  me 
to  go  home,  that  I  meant  to  take  care  of  his  future. 

"  My  remarks  were  received  with  oaths,  and  the 
repeated  demand  to  know  where  Jack  was.  *  Isn't 
he  at  home  ?  '  I  asked.  *  No,  nor  he  ain't  been 
'ome.'  After  a  while  I  gathered  that  Jack  had 
disappeared  in  darkness  from  my  house  on  the 
night  when  I  put  the  last  touch  to  my  picture, 
and  had  not  been  seen  by  his  mother  since.  She 
now  began  to  soften  and  to  cry,  and  I  observed 
that  maternity  was  in  her  as  well  as  cheap  gin.  I 
endeavoured  to  comfort  her  and  promised  that 
little  Jack  should  be  found. 

"  '  If  he  ain't  found,'  she  sobbed, '  I'm  done  for, 
I  am  ;  'e's  my  hall.' 


THE    RAINBOW.  4I 

"  There  was  something  horribly  genuine  in  the 
sound  of  this  cry.  I  began  to  see  beyond  the  gin 
in  which  this  poor  woman  was  soaked  ;  I  began 
to  see  her  half-drowned  soul  that  yet  had  life,  had 
breath. 

'' '  We'll  find  him,'  I  said. 

"  '  Never,  never,'  she  wailed,  rocking  her  thin 
body  to  and  fro,  '  I  know  'e's  gone  to  sea,  'e  'as. 
Jack's  run  away  fur  a  sailor.' 

"  At  these  words  I  turned  cold,  for  I  felt  as  if 
they  were  true.  I  saw  in  a  flash  the  result  of  my 
experiment.  I  had  shown  the  boy  the  way  that 
led  to  the  great  sea.  Perhaps  that  night,  even  as 
he  left  my  door,  he  had  seen  in  fancy  the  white 
waves  playing  before  him  in  the  distance,  the  ships 
go  sailing  by.  He  had  heard  siren  voices  calling 
his  youth  and  he  had  heeded  them.  His  old  mother 
kept  on  cursing  me  at  intervals.  Instinct,  rather 
than  actual  knowledge,  led  her  to  attribute  this 
disappearance  to  my  initiative.  I  did  not  attempt 
to  reason  her  out  of  the  belief,  for  alas  !  I  began 
to  hold  it  myself,  Uniacke." 

"  You  thought  Jack  had  run  away  to  sea, 
prompted  by  all  that  you  had  told  him  of  the 
sea  r 

"Yes.     And  I  think  it  still." 

"  Think — then  you  don't — " 

"  I  don't  know  it,  you'd  say  ?  Do  T  not  ?  Uni- 
acke, a  little  while  ago,  when  you  told  me  of  that 
— that  woman  for  whom  you  cared  much,  you  re- 
member my  saying  to  you,  was  there  not  some- 


42  TONGUES  OF   CONSCIENCE. 

thing  within  you  that  would  tell  you  if  she  were 
dead  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  That  something  which  makes  a  man  know  a 
thing  without  what  is  generally  called  knowledge 
of  it.  Well,  that  something  within  me  makes  me 
know  that  little  Jack  did  run  away  to  sea.  I 
searched  for  him,  I  strove,  as  far  as  one  can  do 
such  a  thing,  to  sift  all  the  innumerable  grains  of 
London  through  my  fingers  to  find  that  one  little 
grain  I  wanted.  I  spared  no  pains  in  my  search. 
Conceive,  even,  that  I  escorted  Drury  Lane  in  the 
black  bonnet  to  the  Docks,  to  ships  lying  in  the 
Thames,  to  a  thousand  places !  It  was  all  in 
vain  ;  the  wonder-child  was  swallowed  up.  I  had 
indeed  drowned  little  Jack  in  the  sea.  I  have  never 
set  eyes  on  him  since  he  left  me  on  the  evening  of 
the  day  when  I  completed  my  picture.  Shall  I 
ever  set  eyes  on  him  again  ?  Shall  I,  Uniacke  ? 
Shall  I?" 

Sir  Graham  put  this  strange  question  with  a 
sort  of  morose  fierceness,  getting  up  from  his  chair 
as  he  spoke.  The  young  clergyman  could  think 
of  no  reply. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  at  last.  "He  may  be 
well,  happy,  active  in  a  life  that  he  loves,  that  he 
glories  in." 

"  No,  Uniacke,  no,  for  he's  far  away  from  his 
duty.  That  hideous  old  woman,  in  her  degrada- 
tion, in  her  cruelty,  in  her  drunkenness,  loved  that 
boy,  loves  him  still,  with  an  intensity,  a  passion,  a 


THE    RAINBOW.  43 

hunger,  a  feverish  anxiety  that  are  noble,  that  are 
great.  Her  hatred  of  me  proves  it.  I  honour  her 
for  her  hatred.  I  respect  her  for  it  !  She  shows 
the  beauty  of  her  soul  in  her  curses.  She  almost 
teaches  me  that  there  is  indeed  immortality — at 
least  for  women — by  her  sleepless  horror  of  me. 
Her  hatred,  I  say,  is  glorious,  because  her  love 
shines  through  it.  I  feed  her.  She  doesn't  know 
it.  She'd  starve  rather  than  eat  my  bread.  She 
would  kill  me,  I  believe,  if  she  didn't  fancy  in  her 
vague  mind,  obscured  by  drink,  that  the  man  who 
had  sent  her  boy  from  her  might  bring  him  back 
to  her.  For  weeks  she  came  every  day — walking 
all  the  way  from  Drury  Lane,  mind  you — to  ask 
if  the  boy  had  returned.  Then  she  endured  the 
nightmare  of  my  company,  as  I  told  you,  while  we 
searched  in  likely  places  for  the  vanished  sea 
urchin.  Jack  did  nothing  for  the  support  of  his 
mother.  It  was  she  who  kept  him.  She  beat 
him.  She  cursed  him.  She  fed  him.  She  loved 
him  ;  like  an  animal,  perhaps,  like  a  mother,  cer- 
tainly. That  says  all,  Uniackc.  It  was  I  who 
sent  that  boy  away.  I  must  give  him  back  to  that 
old  woman.  Till  I  do  so  I  can  never  find  peace. 
This  thing  preys  upon  my  life,  eats  into  my  heart. 
It's  the  little  worm  gnawing,  always  gnawing  at 
mc.  The  doctors  tell  me  I  am  morbid  because  I 
am  in  bad  health,  that  my  bad  health  makes  the 
malady  in  my  mind.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  my 
mind  that  makes  the  malady  in  my  body.  Ah  ! 
you    are    wondering !      You    are  wondering,  too, 


44  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

whether    it's    not   the   other  way !      I    sec   you 


are ! 


"  I  cannot  deny  it,"  Uniacke  said  gently. 

"  You  are  wrong.  You  are  wrong,  I  assure  you. 
And  surely  you,  a  clergyman,  ought  to  be  the 
very  man  to  understand  mc,  to  know  how  what 
seems  a  slight  thing,  a  small  selfishness,  well,  the 
inadvertence  we  spoke  of  lately,  may  punish  the 
soul,  may  have  a  long  and  evil  train  of  conse- 
quences. I  was  careless  of  that  child,  careful  only 
of  my  ambition.  I  ground  the  child  in  the  mor- 
tar of  my  ambition  ;  is  it  not  natural  that  I  should 
suffer  now  ?  Does  not  your  religion  tell  you  that 
it  is  right  ?     Answer  me  that  ?  " 

Uniacke  hesitated.  A  conviction  had  been 
growing  up  in  him  all  the  evening  that  his  guest 
was  suffering  severely  under  some  nervous  afflic- 
tion ;  one  of  those  obscure  diseases  which  change 
the  whole  colour  of  life  to  the  sufferer,  which  dis- 
tort all  actions  however  simple  and  ordinary,  which 
render  diminutive  trials  monstrous,  and  small 
evils  immense  and  ineffably  tragic.  It  seemed  to 
Uniacke  to  be  his  duty  to  combat  Sir  Graham's 
increasing  melancholy,  which  actually  bordered 
upon  despair.  At  the  same  time,  the  young 
clergyman  could  not  hide  from  his  mind — a  mind 
flooded  with  conscience — that  the  painter  was 
slightly  to  blame  for  the  action  which  had  been 
followed  by  so  strange  a  result. 

"  I  see  you  hesitate,  Uniacke,"  said  Sir  Graham. 
"  Ah,  you  agree  with  me  !  " 


THE    RAINBOW.  45 

"  No ;  I  think  you  may  have  been  careless. 
But  you  magnify  a  slight  error  into  a  grievous 
sin  ;  and  I  do  indeed  believe  that  it  must  be  your 
present  bad  state  of  health  which  acts  as  the  mag- 
nifying glass.     That  is  my  honest  opinion." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  painter,  almost  with  anger, 
"  my  illness  is  all  from  the  mind.  If  I  could  find 
that  boy,  if  I  could  give  him  back  to  his  mother, 
I  should  recover  my  peace,  I  should  recover  my 
health — I  should  no  longer  be  haunted,  driven  as 
I  am  now.  But,  Uniackc,  do  you  know  what  it 
is  that  I  fear  most  of  all,  what  it  is  that  dogs  me, 
night  and  d;'v  ;  though  I  strive  to  put  it  from 
me,  to  tell  myself  that  it  is  a  chimera?" 

"What?" 

"  The  belief  that  little  Jack  is  dead  ;  that  he  has 
been  drowned  at  sea,  perhaps  lately,  perhaps  long 
ago." 

"Why  should  you  think  that?  You  do  not 
even  know  for  certain  that  he  ran  away  to  sea." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.     If  he  is  dead!    If  he  is  dead!" 

The  painter,  as  if  in  an  access  of  grief,  turned 
abruptly  from  the  fire,  walked  over  to  the  window, 
pulled  one  of  the  blowing  curtains  aside  and  ap- 
proached his  face  to  the  glass. 

"  In  spite  of  the  storm  it  is  still  so  light  that  I 
can  see  tiiosc  graves,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Don't  look  at  them.  Sir  Graham.  Let  us  talk 
of  other  things." 

"  And — and — yes,  Uniackc,  that  poor,  mac!  Skip- 
per is  still  out  there,  lingering  among  them.     He 


46  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

is  by  the  churchyard  wall,  where  you  were  stand- 
ing this  evening  in  the  twilight :  one  would  say  he 
was  watching." 

The  clergyman  had  also  risen  from  his  seat. 
He  moved  a  step  or  two  across  the  little  room,  then 
stood  still,  looking  at  Sir  Graham,  who  was  half 
concealed  by  the  fluttering  curtains. 

"  He  is  just  where  I  stood?"  Uniackc  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  he  is  watching." 

"  By  a  grave?" 

"Yes.  Only  one  of  his  crew  ever  gained  the 
land.  He  gained  it — a  corpse.  He  is  buried  by 
that  wall.  I  was  reading  the  inscription  upon  his 
tombstone,  and  wondering — " 

"Wondering?     Yes?" 

"  Where  he  is,  how  he  is  now,  far  away  from  the 
voice  of  the  sea  which  took  his  life,  the  wind 
which  roared  his  requiem." 

"  Poor  man !  You  were  here  when  he  was 
washed  up  on  the  beach?" 

"Yes.  I  buried  him.  The  Skipper — sane  then, 
though  in  terrible  grief — was  able  to  identify  him, 
to  follow  the  drowned  body  as  chief  mourner,  to 
choose  the  inscription  for  the  stone." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Sir  Graham,  without 
curiosity,  idly,  almost  absently. 

"  '  Lead,  kindly  light.'  He  would  have  that  put. 
I  think  he  had  heard  the  boy  sing  it,  or  whistle  the 
tune  of  it,  at  sea  one  day." 

"The  boy?     It  was  a  boy  then?" 


THE    RAINBOW.  47 

"Yes." 

The  clerg>'man  spoke  with  a  certain  hesitation, 
a  sudden  diffidence.  He  looked  at  the  painter, 
and  an  abrupt  awkwardness,  almost  a  shamefaced- 
ness,  crept  into  his  manner,  even  showed  itself  in 
his  attitude.  The  painter  did  not  seem  to  be 
aware  of  it.  He  was  still  engrossed  in  his  own 
sorrow,  his  own  morbid  reflections.  He  looked 
out  again  in  the  night. 

"  Poor  faithful  watch-dog,"  he  murmured. 

Then  he  turned  away  from  the  window. 

"  The  Skipper  docs  not  wait  for  that  boy,"  he 
said.  "He  knows  at  least  that  he  can  never  come 
to  him  from  the  sea." 

"Strangely — no.  Indeed,  he  always  looks  for 
the  boy  first." 

"First,  do  you  say?     Was  it  so  to-night?" 

Again  Uniacke  hesitated.  He  was  on  the  verge 
of  telling  a  lie,  but  conscience  intervened. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Didn't  he  speak  of  little  Jack?"  said  Sir  Gra- 
ham slowly,  and  with  a  sudden  nervous  spasm 
of  the  face. 

"  Yes,  Sir  Graham." 

"That's  curious." 

"Why?" 

"The  same  name — my  wonder-child's  name." 

"And  the  name  of  a  thousand  children." 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  And — and,  Uniacke,  the 
other  name,  the  other  name  upon  that  tomb?" 

"What  other  name?" 


48  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Why — why  the  surname.     What  is  that  ?  " 

The  painter  was  standing  close  to  the  clergyman 
and  staring  straight  into  his  eyes.  For  a  moment 
Uniacke  made  no  reply.  Then  he  answered 
slowl}' : 

"  There  is  no  other  name." 

'•Why  not?" 

"  Why — the — the  Skipper  would  only  have  Jack 
put,  that  was  all.  Jack — he  was  the  boy  on  the 
schooner   '  Flying   Fish  ' — '  Lead,  kindly  light.'  " 

"Ah!" 

The  exclamation   came   in   a  sigh,  that  might 
have  been  amurmur  of  relief  or  of  disappointment. 
Then  there  was  a  silence.     The  painter  went  over 
af^ain  to  the  fire.     Uniacke  stood  still  where  he 
was  and  looked  on  the  ground.     He  had  told  a  de- 
liberate lie.     It  seemed  to  grow  as  he  thought  of  it. 
And  why  had  he  told  it?     A  sudden  impulse,  a 
sudden  fear,  had  led  him  into  sin.     A  strange  fancy 
had  whispered  to  him,  "What  if  that  boy  buried 
by  the  wall  yonder  should  be  the  wonder-child, 
the  ragamuffin  who  looked  at  the  rainbow,  the  sea 
urchin,  the  spectre  haunting  your  guest?"     How 
unlikely  that  was !     And  yet  ships  go  far,  and  the 
human  fate  is  often  mysteriously  sad.     It  might  be 
that  the  wonder-child  was  born  to  be  wrecked,  to 
be  cast  up,  streaming  with  sea-water  on  the  strand 
of  this  lonely   isle.      It  might  be  that  the  eyes 
which  worshipped  the  rainbow  were  sightless  be- 
neath that  stone  yonder;    that  the  hands  which 
pointed  to   it  were  folded  in    the  eternal   sleep. 


THE    RAINBOW.  49 

And,  if  so,  was  not  the  lie  justified?  If  so,  could 
Peter  Uniacke  regret  it?  He  saw  this  man  who 
had  come  into  his  lonely  life  treading  along  the 
verge  of  a  world  that  made  him  tremble  in  horror. 
Dared  he  lead  him  across  the  verge  into  the  dark- 
ness? And  yet  his  lie  troubled  him,  and  he  saw  a 
stain  spreading  slowly  out  upon  the  whiteness  of 
his  ardent  soul.  The  painter  turned  from  the  fire. 
His  face  was  haggard  and  weary. 

"  I  will  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  I  must  try  to  get 
some  sleep  even  in  the  storm." 

He  held  out  his  thin  hand.     Uniacke  took  it. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said. 

"  Good-night.  I  am  sorry  I  have  troubled  you 
with  my  foolish  history.^' 

"It  interested  me  deeply.  By  the  way — what 
did  you  say  your  wonder-child's  name  was,  his 
full  name  ?  " 

"  Jack— Jack  Pringle.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  That  gust  of  wind  startled  me. 
Good-night." 

The  painter  looked  at  Uniacke  narrowly,  then 
left  the  room. 

The  clergyman  went  over  to  the  fire,  leaned  his 
arms  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  rested  his  head  on 
them. 

Presently  he  lifted  his  head,  went  softly  to  the 
door,  opened  it  and  listened.  He  heard  the  tread 
of  his  guest  above  stairs,  moving  to  and  fro  about 
the  spare  room.  He  waited.  After  a  while  there 
was  silence  in  the  house.     Only  the  wind  and  the 


50  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

sea  roared  outside.  Then  Uniacke  went  into  the 
kitchen,  pulled  out  a  drawer  in  a  dresser  that  stood 
by  the  window,  and  took  from  it  a  chisel  and  a 
hammer.  He  carried  them  into  the  passage,  fur- 
tively put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and,  with  all  the 
precaution  of  a  thief,  unlocked  the  front  door  and 
stole  out  into  the  storm. 


PART  II. 
THE   GRAVE. 


PART  II. 


THE  GRAVE. 

In  the  morning  the  storm  was  still  fierce. 
Clouds  streamed  across  a  sky  that  bent  lower  and 
lower  towards  the  aspiring  sea  blanched  with  foam. 
There  was  little  light,  and  the  Rectory  parlor 
looked  grim  and  wintry  when  Sir  Graham  and 
Uniacke  met  there  at  breakfast  time.  The  clergy- 
man was  pale  and  seemed  strangely  discomforted 
and  at  first  unable  to  be  natural.  He  greeted  his 
guest  with  a  forcible,  and  yet  flickering,  note  of 
cheerfulness,  abrupt  and  unsympathetic,  as  he 
sat  down  behind  the  steaming  coffee-pot.  The 
painter  scarcely  responded.  He  was  still  attentive 
to  the  storm.     He  ate  very  little. 

"You  slept?"  asked  Uniacke  presently. 

"  Only  for  a  short  time  towards  dawn.  I  sat  at 
my  window  most  of  the  night." 

"  At  your  window?  "  Uniacke  said  uneasily. 

"Yes.  Somebody — a  man — I  suppose  it  must 
have  been  the  Skipper — came  out  from  the  shadow 
of  this  house  soon  after  I  went  to  my  bedroom, 
and   stole   to  that  grave  by  the  churchyard  wall." 

53 


54  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"  Really,"  said  Uniacke.     "  Did  he  stay  there  ?  " 

"  For  some  time,  bending  down.  It  seemed  to 
me  as  if  he  were  at  some  work,  some  task — or  per- 
haps he  was  only  praying  in  his  mad  way,  poor 
fellow !  " 

"  Praying — yes,  yes,  very  likely.  A  little  more 
coffee  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  The  odd  thing  was  that  after 
a  while  he  ceased  and  returned  to  this  house.  One 
might  have  thought  it  was  his  home." 

"You  could  not  see  if  it  was  the  Skipper?" 

"  No,  the  figure  was  too  vague  in  the  faint 
stormy  light.  But  it  must  have  been  he.  Who 
else  would  be  out  at  such  a  time  in  such  a 
night  ?  " 

"  He  never  heeds  the  weather,"  said  Uniacke. 

His  pale  face  had  suddenly  flushed  scarlet,  and 
he  felt  a  pricking  as  of  needles  in  his  body.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  transparent  like  a  thing 
of  glass,  and  that  his  guest  must  be  able  to  see 
not  merely  the  trouble  of  his  soul,  but  the  fact 
that  was  its  cause.  And  the  painter  did  now  begin 
to  observe  his  host's  unusual  agitation. 

"And  you — your  night?"  he  asked. 
"  I  did  not  sleep  at  all,"  said  Uniacke  quickly, 
telling  the  truth  with  a  childish  sense  of  relief,  "  I 
was  excited." 

"  Excited !  "  said  Sir  Graham. 

"  The  unwonted  exercise  of  conversation.  You 
forget  that  I  am  generally  a  lonely  man,"  said  the 
clergyman,  once  more  drawn  into  the  sin  of  sub- 


THE   GRAVE.  55 

terfuge,  and  scorching  in  it  almost  like  a  soul  in 
hell. 

He  got  up  from  the  breakfast-table,  feeling 
strangely  unhappy  and  weighed  down  with  guilt. 
Yet,  as  he  looked  at  the  painter's  worn  face  and 
hollow  eyes,  his  heart  murmured,  perhaps  deceit- 
fully, "  You  are  justified." 

"  I  must  go  out.  I  must  go  into  the  village," 
he  said. 

"  In  this  weather?  " 

"  We  islanders  think  nothing  of  it.  We  pursue 
our  business  though  the  heavens  crack  and  the  sea 
touches  the  clouds." 

He  went  out  hurriedly  and  with  the  air  of  a  man 
painfully  abashed.  Once  beyond  the  churchyard, 
in  the  plough-land  of  the  island  road,  he  con- 
tinued his  tormented  reverie  of  the  night.  Never 
before  had  he  done  evil  that  good  might  come. 
He  had  never  supposed  that  good  could  come 
out  of  evil,  but  had  deemed  the  supposition 
a  monstrous  and  a  deadly  fallacy,  to  be  com- 
bated, to  be  struck  down  to  the  dust.  Even 
now  he  was  chiefly  conscious  of  a  mental  weak- 
ness in  himself  wliich  had  caused  him  to  act 
as  he  had  acted.  He  saw  himself  as  one  of  those 
puny  creatures  whose  so-called  kind  hearts  lead 
them  into  follies,  into  crimes.  Like  many  young 
men  of  virtuous  life  and  ascetic  habit,  Uniackc 
was  disposed  to  worship  that  which  was  uncom- 
promising  in  human  nature,  the  slight  hardness 
which  sometimes  lurks,  like  a  kernel,  in  the  saint. 


56  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

But  he  was  emotional.  He  was  full  of  pity.  He 
desired  to  bandage  the  wounded  world,  to  hush 
its  cries  of  pain,  to  rock  it  to  rest,  even  though  he 
believed  that  suffering  was  its  desert.  And  to  the 
individual,  more  especially,  he  was  very  tender. 
Like  a  foolish  woman,  perhaps,  he  told  himself 
to-day  as  he  walked  on  heavily  in  the  wild  wind, 
debating  his  deed  of  the  night  and  its  conse- 
quences. 

He  had  erased  the  name  of  Pringle  from  the 
stone  that  covered  little  Jack,  the  wonder-child. 
And  he  felt  like  a  criminal.  Yet  he  dreaded  the 
sequel  of  a  discovery  by  the  painter,  that  his  fears 
were  well  founded,  that  his  sea  urchin  had  indeed 
been  claimed  by  the  hunger  of  the  sea.  Uniacke 
had  worked  in  cities  and  had  seen  much  of  sad 
men.  He  had  learned  to  read  them  truly  for  the 
most  part,  and  to  foresee  clearly  in  many  instances 
the  end  of  their  journeys.  And  his  ministrations 
had  taught  him  to  comprehend  the  tragedies  that 
arise  from  the  terrible  intimacy  which  exists  be- 
tween the  body  and  its  occupant  the  soul.  He 
could  not  tell,  as  a  doctor  might  have  been  able 
to  tell,  whether  the  morbid  condition  into  which 
Sir  Graham  had  come  was  primarily  due  to  ill- 
health  of  the  mind  acting  upon  the  body  or  the 
reverse.  But  he  felt  nearly  sure  that  if  the  painter's 
fears  were  proved  suddenly  to  him  to  be  well 
founded,  he  might  not  improbably  fall  into  a  con- 
dition of  permanent  melancholia,  or  even  of  active 
despair.     Despite  his   apparent  hopelessness,  he 


THE    GRAVE.  57 

was  at  present  sustained  by  ignorance  of  the  fate 
of  little  Jack.  He  did  not  actually  know  him 
dead.  The  knowledge  would  knock  a  prop  from 
under  him.  He  would  fall  into  some  dreadful 
abyss.  The  young  clergyman's  deceit  alone  held 
him  back.  But  it  might  be  discovered  at  any 
moment.  One  of  the  islanders  might  chance  to 
observe  the  defacement  of  the  tomb.  A  gossip- 
ing woman  might  mention  to  Sir  Graham  the 
name  that  had  vanished.  Yet  these  chances  were 
remote.  A  drowned  stranger  boy  is  naught  to 
such  folk  as  these,  bred  up  in  familiarity  with  vio- 
lent death.  Long  ago  they  had  ceased  to  talk  of 
the  schooner  "  Flying  Fish,"  despite  the  presence 
of  the  mad  Skipper,  despite  the  sound  of  church 
bells  in  the  night.  Fresh  joys,  or  tragedies, 
absorbed  them.  For  even  the  island  world  has 
its  record.  Time  plants  his  footsteps  upon  the 
loneliest  land.  And  the  dwellers  note  his  onward 
tour. 

Uniacke  reckoned  the  chances  for  and  against 
the  discovery  of  his  furtive  act  of  mercy  and  its 
revelation  to  his  guest.  The  latter  outnumbered 
the  former.  Yet  Uniacke  walked  ner\'ously  as 
one  on  the  verge  of  disaster.  In  the  Island  cot- 
tages that  morning  he  bore  himself  uneasily  in  the 
presence  of  his  simple-minded  parishioners.  Sit- 
ting beside  an  invalid,  whose  transparent  mind 
was  dimly,  but  with  ardent  faith,  set  on  Heaven, 
he  f(  It  hideously  unfitted  to  point  the  way  to  that 
place  into  which  no  liar  shall  ever  Lonie.      He  was 


58  TONGUES   OF     CONSCIENCE. 

troubled,  and  prayed  at  random  for  the  dying — 
thinking  of  the  dead.  At  the  same  time  he  felt 
himself  the  chief  of  sinners  and  knew  that  there 
was  a  devil  in  him  capable  of  repeating  his  noc- 
turnal act.  Never  before  had  he  gathered  so  vital 
a  knowledge  of  the  complexity  of  man.  He 
saw  the  threads  of  him  all  ravelled  up.  When  he 
finished  his  prayers  at  the  bedside,  the  invalid 
watched  him  with  the  critical  amazement  of  ill- 
ness. 

He  went  out  trembling  and  conscience-stricken. 
When  he  reached  the  churchyard  on  his  way 
homewards,  he  saw  Sir  Graham  moving  among 
the  graves.  He  had  apparently  just  come  out 
from  the  Rectory  and  was  making  his  way  to  the 
low  stone  wall,  over  which  shreds  of  foam  were 
being  blown  by  the  wind.  Uniacke  hastened  his 
steps,  and  hailed  Sir  Graham  in  a  loud  and  harsh 
voice.  He  paused,  and  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
arched  hands,  gazed  towards  the  road. 

Uniacke  hurried  through  the  narrow  gate  and 
joined  his  guest,  who  looked  like  a  man  startled 
out  of  some  heavy  reverie. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you,"  he  said.     "  Well,  I—" 

"You  were  going  to  watch  the  sea,  I  know.  It 
is  worth  watching  to-day.  Come  with  me.  I'll 
take  you  to  the  point — to  the  nigger." 

"  The  nigger  ?  " 

"  The  fishermen  call  the  great  black  rock  at  the 
north  end  of  the  Island  by  that  name.  The  sea 
must  be  breaking  magnificently." 


THE   GRAVE.  59 

Uniacke  took  Sir  Graham's  arm  and  led  him 
away,  compelling  him  almost  as  if  he  were  a  child. 
They  left  the  churchyard  behind  them,  and  were 
soon  in  solitary  country  alone  with  the  roar  of 
wind  and  sea.  Branching  presently  from  the  road 
they  came  into  a  narrow,  scarcely  perceptible,  track, 
winding  downward  over  short  grass  drenched 
with  moisture.  The  dull  sheep  scattered  slowly 
from  them  on  either  side  of  the  way.  Presently 
the  grass  ceased  at  the  edge  of  an  immense 
blunt  rock,  like  a  disfigured  head,  that  contem- 
plated fixedly  the  white  turmoil  of  the  sea. 

"  A  place  for  shipwreck,"  said  Sir  Graham.  "  A 
place  of  death." 

Uniacke  nodded.  The  painter  swept  an  arm 
towards  the  sea. 

"  What  a  graveyard  !  One  would  say  the  time 
had  come  for  it  to  give  up  its  dead  and  it  was 
passionately  fighting  against  the  immutable  de- 
cree.    Is  Jack  somewhere  out  there?  " 

He  turned  and  fi.xcd  his  eyes  upon  Uniacke's 
face.     Uniacke's  eyes  fell. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  repeated  Sir  Graham. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  exclaimed  Uniacke,  almost 
with  a  sudden  anger.     "  Let  us  go  back." 

Towards  evening  the  storm  suddenly  abated. 
A  pale  yellow  ligl^.t  broke  along  the  hoii/.on, 
almost  as  the  j)riinroses  break  out  along  the 
horizon  of  winter.  The  thin  black  spars  of 
a  hurrying  vessel  pointed  to  the  ilhimina- 
tion  and  vanished,   leaving  the  memory  of  ;i  tor- 


6o  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

tured  gesture  from  some  sea-thing.  And  as  the 
yellow  deepened  to  gold,  the  Skipper  set  the 
church  bells  ringing.  Sir  Graham  opened  the 
parlour  window  wide  and  listened,  leaning  out 
towards  the  graves.  Uniacke  was  behind  him  in 
the  room.  Vapour  streamed  up  from  the  buffeted 
earth,  which  seemed  panting  for  a  repose  it 
had  no  strength  to  gain.  Ding  dong !  Ding 
dong!  The  wild  and  far-away  light  grew  to 
flame  and  faded  to  darkness.  In  the  darkness  the 
bells  seemed  clearer,  for  light  deafens  the  imag- 
ination. Uniacke  felt  a  strange  irritability  coming 
upon  him.  He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair, 
watching  the  motionless,  stretched  figure  of  his 
guest.     Presently  he  said  : 

"  Sir  Graham  !  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Sir  Graham  !  " 

He  got  up,  crossed  the  little  room  and  touched 
the  shoulder  of  the  dreamer.  Sir  Graham  started 
sharply  and  turned  a  frowning  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  atmosphere  is  very  cold  and  damp  after 
the  storm." 

"  You  wish  me  to  shut  the  window  ?  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

He  drew  in  and  shut  it,  then  moved  to  the 
door. 

"  You  are  going  out  ?  "  said  Uniacke  uneasily. 

"  Yes." 

"  I — I  would   not   speak  to  the  Skipper,  if   I 


THE   GRAVE.  6l 

were  you.  He  is  happier  when  he  is  let  quite 
alone." 

"  I  want  to  see  him.     I  want  him  to  sit  for  me." 

"To  sit  !  "  Uniacke  repeated,  with  an  accent 
almost  of  horror. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Graham  doggedly.  **  I  have  a 
great  picture  in  my  mind." 

"  But—" 

"  The  Skipper's  meeting  with  his  drowned  com- 
rades, in  that  belfry  tower.  He  will  stand  with 
the  ropes  dropping  from  his  hands,  triumph  in  his 
eyes.  They  will  be  seen  coming  up  out  of  the 
darkness,  grey  men  and  dripping  from  the  sea, 
with  dead  eyes  and  hanging  lips.  And  first 
among  them  will  be  my  wonder-child,  on  whom 
will  fall  a  ray  of  light  from  a  wild  moon,  half 
seen  through  the  narrow  slit  of  the  deep-set  win- 
dow." 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Your  wonder-child  must  not  be  there.  Why 
should  he  ?     He  is  alive." 

"  You  think  so  ?  " 

Uniacke  made  no  reply. 

"  I  say,  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  know?  It  is  impossible.  But — 
yes,  I  think  so." 

The  clergyman  turned  away.  A  sickness  of  the 
conscience  overtook  him  like  physical  pain.  Sir 
Graham  was  by  the  door  with  his  hand  upon  it. 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  believe   in  in- 


62  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

tuitions.  Nothing  tells  you  whether  that  woman 
you  loved  is  dead  or  living.     You  said  that." 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  what  should  tell  you  whether  Jack  is 
dead  or  living?  " 

He  turned  and  went  out.  Presently  Uniacke 
saw  his  dark  figure  pass,  like  a  shadow,  across  the 
square  of  the  window.  The  night  grew  more 
quiet  by  slow  degrees.  The  hush  after  the  storm 
increased.  And  to  the  young  clergyman's  unquiet 
nerves  it  seemed  like  a  crescendo  in  music  instead 
of  like  a  diminuendo,  as  sometimes  seems  the  fall- 
ing to  sleep  of  a  man  to  a  man  who  cannot  sleep. 
The  noise  of  the  storm  had  been  softer  than  the 
sound  of  this  increasing  silence  in  which  the  church 
bells  presently  died  away.  Uniacke  was  con- 
sumed by  an  apprehension  that  was  almost  like 
the  keen  tooth  of  jealousy.  For  he  knew  that  the 
Skipper  had  ceased  from  his  patient  task  and  Sir 
Graham  did  not  return.  He  imagined  a  colloquy. 
But  the  Skipper's  madness  would  preserve  the 
secret  which  he  no  longer  knew,  and,  therefore, 
could  not  reveal.  He  made  the  bells  call  Jack 
Pringle.  He  would  never  point  to  the  defaced 
grave  and  say,  "  Jack  Pringle  lies  beneath  this 
stone."  And  yet  sanity  might,  perhaps,  return,  a 
rush  of  knowledge  of  the  past  and  recognition  of 
its  tragedy. 

Uniacke  took  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door.  He 
stood  out  on  the  step.  Sea-birds  were  crying. 
The  sound  of  the  sea  withdrew  moment  by  mo- 


THE   GRAVE.  63 

ment,  as  if  it  were  stealing  furtively  away.  Be- 
hind, in  the  rectory  passage,  the  servant  clattered 
as  she  brought  in  the  supper. 

"  Sir  Graham  !  "  Uniacke  called  suddenly.  "  Sir 
Graham ! " 

"  Yes." 

The  voice  came  from  somewhere  in  the  shadow 
of  the  church. 

"  Will  you  not  come  in  ?     Supper  is  ready." 

In  a  moment  the  painter  came  out  of  the  gloom. 

"  That  churchyard  draws  me,"  he  said,  mount- 
ing the  step. 

"  You  saw  the  Skipper?" 

"  Yes,  leaving." 

"  Did  he  speak  to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

The  clergyman  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

In  the  evening  Uniacke  turned  his  pipe  two  or 
three  times  in  his  fingers  and  said,  looking  down : 

"  That  picture  of  yours — " 

"  Yes.     What  of  it  ?  " 

"You  will  paint  it  in  London,  I  suppose?" 

"  How  can  I  do  that  ?  The  imagination  of  it 
came  to  me  here,  is  sustained  and  quickened  by 
these  surroundings." 

"  Yf)u  mean  to  paint  it  here?"  the  clergyman 
faltered. 

Sir  Graham  was  evidently  struck  by  his  host's 
air  of  painful  discomfiture. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  .said  hastily.  "  Of 
course  I  do  not  mean  to  inflict  myself  upon  your 


64  TONGUES   OF    C0NSCIP:NCE. 

kind  hospitality  while  I   am   working.     I  shall  re- 
turn to  the  inn." 

Uniacke  flushed  red  at  being  so  misunderstood. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  do  that.  No,  no  !  Honestly, 
my  question  was  only  prompted  by — by — a 
thought — " 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  Do  not  think  me  impertinent.  But,  really,  a 
regard  for  you  has  grown  up  in  me  since  you  have 
allowed  mc  to  know  you — a  great  regard  indeed." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Uniacke,"  said  the 
painter,  obviously  moved. 

"  And  it  has  struck  me  that  in  your  present 
condition  of  health,  and  seeing  that  your  mind  is 
pursued  by  these — these  melancholy  sea  thoughts 
and  imaginings,  it  might  be  safer,  better  for  you 
to  be  in  a  place  less  desolate,  less  preyed  upon  by 
the  sea.     That  is  all.     Believe  me,  that  is  all." 

He  spoke  the  last  words  with  the  peculiar  insis- 
tence and  almost  declamatory  fervour  of  the  liar. 
But  he  was  now  embarked  upon  deceit  and  must 
crowd  all  sail.  And  with  the  utterance  of  his  lie 
he  took  an  abrupt  resolution. 

"  Let  us  go  away  together  somewhere,"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  a  brightening  face.  "  I  need  a  holi- 
day. I  will  get  a  brother  clergyman  to  come  over 
from  the  mainland  and  take  my  services.  You 
asked  me  some  day  to  return  your  visit.  I  accept 
your  invitation  here  and  now.  Let  me  come  with 
you  to  London." 

Sir  Graham  shook  his  head. 


THE   GRAVE.  65 

"  You  put  me  in  the  position  of  an  inhospitable 
man,"  he  said.  "  In  the  future  you  must  come  to 
me.  I  look  forward  to  that,  I  depend  upon  it. 
But  I  cannot  go  to  London  at  present.  My  house, 
my  studio  are  become  loathsome  to  me.  The  very 
street  in  which  I  live  echoes  with  childish  footsteps. 
I  cannot  be  there." 

"  Sir  Graham,  you  must  learn  to  look  upon  your 
past  act  in  a  different  light.  If  you  do  not,  your 
power  of  usefulness  in  the  world  will  be  crushed." 

The  clergyman  spoke  with  an  intense  earnest- 
ness. His  sense  of  his  own  increasing  unworthi- 
ness,  the  fighting  sense  of  the  necessity  laid 
upon  him  to  be  unworthy  for  this  sick  man's  sake, 
tormented  him,  set  his  heart  in  a  sea  of  trouble. 
He  strove  to  escape  out  of  it  by  mental  exertion. 
His  eyes  shone  with  unnatural  fervour  as  he  went 
on  : 

"  When  you  first  told  me  your  story,  I  thought 
this  thing  weighed  upon  you  unnecessarily.  Now 
I  see  more  and  more  clearly  that  your  unnatural 
misery  over  a  very  natural  act  springs  from  ill- 
health.  It  is  your  body  which  you  confuse  with 
your  conscience.  Your  remorse  is  a  disease  re- 
movable by  medicine,  by  a  particular  kind  of  air 
or  scene,  by  waters  even  it  may  be,  or  by  hard  ex- 
ercise, or  by  a  voyage." 

"  A  voyage  !  "  cried  Sir  Graham  bitterly. 

"  Well,  well — by  such  means,  I  would  say,  as 
come  to  a  doctor's  mind.  You  labour  under  the 
yoke  of  the  body." 


66  tongup:s  of  conscience. 

"  Do  you  think  that  whenever  your  conscience 
says,  '  You  have  done  wrong '  ?     Tell  me  !  " 

Uniacke,  who  had  got  up  in  his  excitement, 
recoiled  at  these  words  which  struck  him  hard. 

"  I — I !  "  he  almost  stammered.  "  What  have 
I  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

"  I  ask  you  to  judge  yourself,  to  put  yourself  in 
my  place.  That  is  all.  Do  you  tell  me  that  all 
workings  of  conscience  are  due  to  obscure  bodily 
causes?" 

"  How  could  I  ?     No,  but  yours — " 

"  Are  not.  They  hurt  my  body.  They  do  not 
come  from  my  body's  hurt.  And  they  increase 
upon  me  in  this  place,  yes,  they  increase  upon  me." 

"  I  knew  it,"  cried  Uniacke. 

"  Why  is  that  ?  "  said  Sir  Graham,  with  a  melan- 
choly accent.  "  I  feel,  I  begin  to  feel  that  there 
must  be  some  powerful  reason — yes,  in  this  island." 

*'  There  cannot  be.     Leave  it !     Leave  it ! " 

"  I  am  held  here." 

"  By  what  ?  " 

"  Something  intangible,  invisible — " 

"  Nothing,  then." 

"All-powerful.  I  cannot  go.  If  I  would  go,  I 
cannot.     Perhaps — perhaps  Jack  is  coming  here." 

The  painter's  eyes  were  blazing.  Uniacke  felt 
himself  turn  cold. 

"  Jack  coming  here  !  "  he  said  harshly.  "  Non- 
sense, Sir  Graham.     Nobody  ever  comes  here." 

"  Dead   bodies    come  on    the    breast    of    the 


sea." 


THE    GRAVE.  6/ 

The  painter  looked  towards  the  window,  putting 
himself  into  an  attitude  of  horrible  expectation. 

"  Is  it  not  so?  "  he  asked,  in  a  voice  that  quiver- 
ed slightly  as  if  with  an  agitation  he  was  trying  to 
suppress, 

Uniacke  made  no  reply.  He  was  seized  with  a 
horror  he  had  not  known  before.  He  recognised 
that  the  island  influence  mysteriously  held  his 
guest.     After  an  interval  he  said  abruptly  : 

"  What  is  your  doctor's  name,  did  you  say?  " 

"  Did  I  ever  say  whom  I  had  consulted  ?  "  said 
Sir  Graham,  almost  with  an  invalid's  ready  suspi- 
cion, and  peering  at  the  clergyman  under  his  thick 
eyebrows. 

"  Surely.  But  I  forget  things  so  easily,"  said 
Uniacke  calmly. 

"  Braybrookc  is  the  man — Cavendish  Square. 
An  interesting  fellow.  You  may  have  heard  of 
his  book  on  the  use  of  colour  as  a  sort  of  physic  in 
certain  forms  of  illness." 

"  I  have.     What  sort  of  man  is  he?  " 

"  Very  small,  very  grey,  very  indecisive  in  man- 

f  * 

ncr. 

"  Indecisive  ?" 

"In  manner.  In  reality  a  man  of  infinite  con- 
viction." 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  told  him  your  story  ?" 

"The  story  of  my  body — naturally.  One  goes 
to  a  doctor  to  do  that." 

"  And  did  that  narrative  satisfy  him? 

"  Not  at  all.     Not  a  bit." 


68  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

'•  Well— and  so  ?  " 

*'  I  did  not  tell  him  my  mental  story.  I  ex- 
plained to  him  that  I  suffered  greatly  from  melan- 
choly. That  was  all,  I  called  it  unreasoning  mel- 
ancholy. Why  not  ?  I  knew  he  could  do  no  more 
than  put  my  body  a  little  straight.  He  did  his 
best." 

"  I  see,"  said  Uniacke,  slowly. 

That  night,  after  Sir  Graham  had  gone  to  bed, 
Uniacke  came  to  a  resolution.  He  decided  to 
write  to  Doctor  Braybrooke,  betray,  for  his  guest's 
sake,  his  guest's  confidence,  and  ask  the  great  man's 
advice  in  the  matter,  revealing  to  him  the  strange 
fact  that  fate  had  led  the  painter  of  the  sea  urchin 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  grave  in  which  he  slept  so 
quietly.  No  longer  did  Uniacke  hesitate,  or  pause 
to  ask  himself  why  he  permitted  the  sorrow  of  a 
stranger  thus  to  control,  to  upset,  his  life.  And, 
indeed,  is  the  man  who  tells  us  his  sorrow  a 
stranger  to  us?  Uniacke's  creed  taught  him  to 
be  unselfish,  taught  him  to  concern  himself  in  the 
afflictions  of  others.  Already  he  had  sinned,  he 
had  lied  for  this  stricken  man.  He,  a  clergyman, 
had  gone  out  in  the  night  and  had  defaced  a  grave. 
All  this  lay  heavy  on  his  heart.  His  conscience 
smote  him.  And  yet,  when  he  saw  before  him 
in  the  night  the  vision  of  this  tortured  man,  he 
knew  that  he  would  repeat  his  sin  if  necessary. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  He  sat  down  and 
tried  to  think  of  the  two  sermons  he  had  to  preach. 
The  sea  lay  very  still  on  the  Sabbath  morning,  still 


THE    GRAVE.  69 

under  a  smooth  and  pathetic  grey  sky.     The  at- 
mosphere seemed  that  of  a  Avinter  fairyland.     All 
the  sea-birds  were  in  hiding.     Small  waves  licked 
the  land  like  furtive  tongues  seeking  some  dainty 
food  with  sly  desire.     Across  the  short  sea-grass 
the  island  children  wound  from  school  to  church, 
and  the  island  lads  gathered  in  knots  to  say  noth- 
ing.     The  whistling  of  a  naughty  fisherman  at- 
tending to  his  nets  unsabbatically  pierced  the  slIU 
and  magically  cruel  air  with  a  painful  sharpness. 
People  walked  in  silence  without  knowing  why  they 
did  not  care  to  speak.     And  even  the  girls,  discreet 
in  ribbons  and  shining  boots,  thought  less  of  kisses 
than  they  generally  did  on  Sunday.     The  older 
people,    sober   by   temperament,  became  sombre 
under  the  influence  of   sad,  breathless    sky,  and 
breathless  waters.     The  coldness  that  lay   in  the 
bosom  of  nature  soon   found  its   way   to  the   re- 
sponsive bosom  of  humanity.     It  chilled  Uniacke 
in  the  pulpit,  Sir  Graham  in  the  pew  below.    The 
one  preached  without  heart.     The  other  listened 
without  emotion.     All  this  was  in  the  morning. 
But  at   evening  nature  .stirred  in  her  repose  and 
turned,  with  the  abruptness  of  a  born  coquette,  to 
pageantry.     A  light  wind  got  up.     The  waves  were 
curved  and  threw  up  thin  showers  of  ivory  spray 
playfully  along  the  rocks.     The  sense  of  fairyland, 
wrapped  in  ethereal  silences,  quivered  and  broke 
like  disturbed  water.     And  llie  grey  womb  of  the 
sky  swelled  in  the  west  to  give  uj)  a  sunset  that 
became  tragic  in  its  crescendo  of  glory.     Bursting 


70  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

forth  in  flame — a  narrow  line  of  fire  along  the  sea 
— it  pushed  its  way  slowly  up  the  sky.  Against 
the  tattered  clouds  a  hidden  host  thrust  forth 
their  spears  of  gold.  And  a  wild-rose  colour  de- 
scended upon  the  gentle  sea  and  floated  to  the 
island,  bathing  the  rocks,  the  grim  and  weather- 
beaten  houses,  the  stones  of  the  churchyard,  with  a 
radiance  so  delicate,  and  yet  so  elfish,  that  enchant- 
ment walked  there  till  the  night  came  down,  and  in 
the  darkness  the  islanders  moved  on  their  way  to 
church.  The  pageant  was  over.  But  it  had  stirred 
two  imaginations.  It  blazed  yet  in  two  hearts. 
The  shock  of  its  coming,  after  long  hours  of  storm, 
had  stirred  Uniacke  and  his  guest  strangely.  And 
the  former,  leaving  in  the  rectory  parlour  the  ser- 
mon he  had  composed,  preached  extempore  on 
the  text,  "  In  the  evening  there  shall  be  light." 

He  began  radiantly  and  with  fervour.  But  some 
spirit  of  contradiction  entered  his  soul  as  he  spoke, 
impelling  him  to  a  more  sombre  mood  that  was 
yet  never  cold,  but  rather  impassioned  full  of 
imaginative  despair.  He  was  driven  on  to  dis- 
course of  the  men  who  will  not  see  light,  of  the 
men  who  draw  thick  blinds  to  shut  out  light.  And 
then  he  was  led,  by  the  egoism  that  so  subtly 
guides  even  the  best  among  men,  to  speak  of 
those  fools  who,  by  fostering  darkness,  think  to 
compel  sunshine,  as  a  man  may  mix  dangerous 
chemicals  in  a  laboratory,  seeking  to  advance  some 
cause  of  science  and  die  in  the  poisonous  fumes 
of  his  own  devilish  brew.     Can  good,  impulsive 


THE    GRAVE.  71 

and  radiant,  come  out  of  deliberate  evil?  Must 
not  a  man  care  first  for  his  own  soul  if  he  would 
heal  the  soul  of  even  one  other?  Uniacke  spoke 
with  a  strange  and  powerful  despair  on  this  subject. 
He  ended  in  a  profound  sadness  and  with  the 
words  of  one  scourged  by  doubts. 

There  was  a  pause,  the  shuffle  of  moving  feet. 
Then  the  voice  of  the  clerk  announced  the  closing 
hymn.  It  was  "  Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  chosen  by 
the  harmonium  player  and  submitted  to  Uniacke, 
who,  however,  had  failed  to  notice  that  it  was 
included  in  the  list  of  hymns  for  the  day.  The 
clerk's  voice  struck  on  him  like  a  blow.  He  stared 
down  from  the  pulpit  and  met  the  upward  gaze  of 
his  guest.  Then  he  laid  his  cold  hands  on  the 
wooden  ledge  of  the  pulpit  and  turned  away  his 
eyes.  For  he  felt  as  if  Sir  Graham  must  under- 
stand the  secret  that  lay  in  them.  The  islanders 
sang  the  hymn  lustily,  bending  their  heads  over 
their  books  beneath  the  dull  oil  lamps  that  filled 
the  church  with  a  dingy  yellow  twilight.  Alone, 
at  the  back  of  the  building,  the  mad  Skipper  stood 
up  by  the  belfry  door  and  stared  straight  before 
him  as  if  he  watched.  And  Uniacke's  trouble 
increased,  seeming  to  walk  in  the  familiar  music 
which  had  been  whistled  by  Jack  Pringle  as  he 
.swarmed  to  the  mast-head,  or  turned  into  his  bunk 
at  night  far  out  at  sea.  Sir  Graham  had  spoken 
of  intuitions.  Surely,  the  clergyman  thought, 
to-night  he  will  feel  the  truth  and  my  He.  To-night 
he  will  understand  that  it  is  useless  to  wait,  that 


72  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

the  wonder-child  can  never  come  to  this  island, 
for  he  came  on  the  breast  of  the  sea  long 
ago.  And  if  he  does  know,  now,  at  this  moment, 
while  the  inlanders  are  singing, 

"  And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile — " 

how  will  he  regard  me,  who  have  lied  to  him  and 
who  have  preached  to  him,  coward  and  hypocrite  ? 
For  still  the  egoism  was  in  Uniacke's  heart. 
There  is  no  greater  egoist  than  the  good  man  who 
has  sinned  against  his  nature.  He  sits  down  eter- 
nally to  contemplate  his  own  soul.  When  the 
hymn  was  over  Uniacke  mechanically  gave  the 
blessing  and  knelt  down.  But  he  did  not  pray. 
His  mind  stood  quite  still  all. the  time  he  was  on 
his  knees.  He  got  up  wearily,  and  as  he  made 
his  way  into  the  little  vestry,  he  fancied  that  he 
heard  behind  him  a  sound  as  of  someone  tramp- 
ing in  scaboots  upon  the  rough  church  pavement. 
He  looked  round  and  saw  the  bland  face  of  the 
clerk,  who  wore  perpetually  a  little  smile,  like  that 
of  a  successful  public  entertainer.  That  evening 
he  wrote  to  Doctor  Braybrooke. 

On  the  morrow  Sir  Graham  began  the  first 
sketch  for  his  picture,  "  The  Processioji  of  tJie 
Drowned  to  their  faithful  Captain.'' 

Three  mornings  later,  when  Uniacke  came  to 
the  breakfast-table.  Sir  Graham,  who  was  down 
before  him,  handed  to  him  a  letter,  the  envelope 
of  which  was  half  torn  open. 

*'  It  was  put  among  mine,"  he  said  in  apology, 


THE    GRAVE.  "JT^ 

"  and  as  the  handwriting  was  perfectly  familiar  to 
me,  I  began  to  open  it." 

"  Familiar  ?  "  said  Uniackc,  taking  the  letter. 

"  Yes.  It  bears  an  exact  resemblance  to  Doctor 
Braybrooke's  writing." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Uniacke,  laying  the  letter  aside 
rather  hastily. 

They  sat  down  on  either  side  of  the  table. 

"You  don't  read  your  letter,"  Sir  Graham  said, 
after  two  or  three  minutes  had  passed. 

"  After  breakfast.  I  don't  suppose  it  is  any- 
thing important,"  said  the  clergyman  hastily. 

Sir  Graham  said  nothing  more,  but  drank  his 
coffee  and  soon  afterwards  went  off  to  his  work. 
Then  Uniacke  opened  the  letter. 

"  Cavendish  Square, 

"  London,  Dec. — 
"  Dear  Sir  : 

"  I  read  your  letter  about  my  former  patient,  Sir 
Graham  Hamilton,  with  great  interest.  .  When  he 
consulted  me  I  was  fully  aware  that  he  was  con- 
cealing from  me  some  mental  trouble,  which 
reacted  upon  his  bodily  condition  and  tended  to 
retard  his  complete  recovery  of  health.  However, 
a  doctor  cannot  force  the  confidence  of  a  patient 
even  in  that  patient's  own  interest,  and  I  was, 
therefore,  compelled  to  work  in  the  dark,  and  to 
work  without  satisfaction  to  myself  and  lasting 
benefit  to  Sir  Graham.  You  now  let  in  a  strange 
light  upon  the  case,  and  I  have  little  doubt  what 


74  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

course  would  be  the  best  to  pursue  in  regard  to 
the  future.  Sir  Graham's  nervous  system  has 
broken  down  so  completely  that,  as  oftens  hap- 
pens in  nervous  cases,  his  very  nature  seems  to 
have  changed.  The  energy,  the  remarkable  self- 
confidence,  the  hopefulness  and  power  of  looking 
forward,  and  of  working  for  the  future,  which  have 
placed  him  where  he  is — these  have  vanished.  He 
is  possessed  by  a  fixed  idea,  and  imagines  that  it 
is  this  fixed  idea  which  has  preyed  upon  him  and 
broken  him  down.  But  my  knowledge  of  nerve- 
complaints  teaches  me  that  the  fixed  idea  follows 
on  the  weakening  of  the  nervous  system,  and  sel- 
dom or  never  precedes  it.  I  find  it  is  an  effect 
and  not  a  cause.  But  it  is  a  fact  that  the  fixed 
idea  which  possesses  a  man  under  such  circum- 
stances is  often  connected,  and  closely,  with  the 
actual  cause  of  his  illness.  Sir  Graham  Hamilton 
is  suffering  from  long  and  habitual  overwork  in 
connection  with  the  sea  ;  overwork  of  the  imagi- 
nation, of  the  perceptive  faculty,  and  in  the  mere 
mechanical  labour  of  putting  on  canvas  what  he 
imagines  and  what  he  perceives.  In  consequence 
of  this  overstrain  and  subsequent  breakdown,  he 
has  become  possessed  by  a  fixed  sea-idea,  and 
traces  all  his  wretchedness  to  this  episode  of  the 
boy  and  the  picture.  You  will  say  I  did  not  suc- 
ceed in  curing  him  because  I  did  not  discover 
what  this  fixed  idea  was.  How  can  that  be,  if 
the  idea  comes  from  the  illness  and  not  the  ill- 
ness from  the   idea.     In  reply  I  must  inform  you 


THE    GRAVE.  75 

that  a  tragic  idea,  once  it  is  fixed  in  the  mind  of  a 
man,  can,  and  often  does,  become  in  itself  at  last 
a  more  remote,  but  effective,  cause  of  the  prolonged 
continuance  of  the  ill-health  already  started  by 
some  other  agent.  It  keeps  the  wound,  which  it 
has  not  made,  open.  It  is  most  important,  there- 
fore, that  it  should,  if  possible,  be  banished,  in  the 
case  of  Sir  Graham  as  in  other  cases.  Your  ami- 
able deception  has  quite  possibly  averted  a  tragedy. 
Continue  in  it,  I  counsel yoti.  The  knowledge  that 
his  fears  are  well  founded,  that  the  boy — for  whose 
fate  he  morbidly  considers  himself  entirely  respon- 
sible— has  in  very  truth  been  lost  at  sea,  and  lies 
buried  in  the  ground  beneath  his  feet,  might,  in 
his  present  condition  of  invalidism,  be  attended 
by  most  evil  results.  Some  day  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  he  may  be  able  to  learn  all  the  facts  with 
equanimity,  l^ut  this  can  only  be  later  when  long 
rest  and  change  have  accomplished  their  beneficent 
work.  It  cannot  certainly  be  now.  Endeavour, 
therefore,  to  dissuade  him  from  any  sort  of  crea- 
tive labor.  Endeavour  to  persuade  him  to  leave 
the  island.  Above  all  things,  do  not  let  him  know 
the  truth.  It  is  a  sad  thing  that  a  strong  man  of 
genius  should  be  brought  so  low  that  he  has  to  be 
treated  witii  precautions  almost  suitable  to  a  child. 
But  to  a  doctor  there  are  many  more  children  in 
the  world  than  a  statistician  might  be  able  to 
number.  I  w  ish  I  could  take  a  holiday  and  come 
to  your  assistance.  Unfortunately,  my  duties  tie 
me  closely  to  town  at  the  present.     And,  in   any 


76  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

case,  my  presence  might  merely  irritate  and  alarm 
our  friend. 

"  Believe  me, 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  John  Braybrooke." 

Uniacke  read  this  letter,  and  laid  it  down  with 
a  strange  mingled  feeling  of  relief  and  apprehen- 
sion. The  relief  was  a  salve  that  touched  his 
wounded  conscience  gently.  If  he  had  sinned,  at 
least  this  physician's  letter  told  him  that  by  his 
sin  he  had  accomplished  something  beneficent. 
And  for  the  moment  self-condemnation  ceased  to 
scourge  him.  The  apprehension  that  quickly  be- 
set him  rose  from  the  knowledge  that  Sir  Graham 
was  in  danger  so  long  as  he  was  in  the  Island. 
But  how  could  he  be  persuaded  to  leave  it  ?  That 
was  the  problem. 

Uniacke's  reverie  over  the  letter  was  interrupted 
by  the  appearance  of  the  painter.  As  he  came  into 
the  room,  the  clergyman  rather  awkwardly  thrust 
the  doctor's  letter  into  his  pocket  and  turned  to 
his  guest. 

*'  In  already,  Sir  Graham  ?  "  he  said,  with  a 
strained  attempt  at  ease  of  manner.  "  Ah  !  work 
tires  you.  Indeed  you  should  take  a  long  holi- 
day." 

He  spoke,  thinking  of  the  doctor's  words. 

"  I  have  not  started  work,"  the  painter  said. 
"  I've — I've  been  looking  at  that  grave  by  the 
church  wall — the  boy's  grave." 


THE    GRAVE.  77 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Uniacke,  with  sudden  coldness. 

"  Do  you  know,  Uniacke,  it  seems — it  seems 
to  me  that  the  gravestone  has  been  defaced," 

"  Defaced !  Why,  what  could  make  such  an 
idea  come  to  you  ?  "  exclaimed  the  clergyman. 
"  Defaced  !     But—" 

"  There  is  a  gap  in  the  inscription  after  the  word 
*  Jack,'  "  the  painter  said  slowly,  fixing  a  piercing 
and  morose  glance  on  his  companion.  *'  And  it 
seems  to  me  that  some  blunt  instrument  has  been 
at  work  there." 

"  Oh,  there  was  always  a  gap  there,"  said  Uni- 
acke hastily,  touching  the  letter  that  lay  in  his 
pocket,  and  feeling,  strangely,  as  if  the  contact 
fortified  that  staggering  pilgrim  on  the  path  of 
lies — his  conscience.  "  There  was  always  a  gap. 
It  was  a  whim  of  the  Skipper's — a  mad  whim." 

"  But  I  understood  he  was  sane  when  his  ship- 
mate was  buried  ?     You  said  so." 

"  Sane  ?  Yes,  in  comparison  with  what  he  is 
now.  But  one  could  not  argue  with  him.  He 
was  distraught  with  grief." 

Sir  Graham  looked  at  Uniacke  with  the  heavy 
suspicion  of  a  sick  man,  but  he  said  nothing  more 
on  the  subject.  He  turned  as  if  to  go  out.  Uni- 
acke stopped  him. 

"  Ydu  are  going  to  paint  ?  " 


"  Yes. 


Again  Uniacke  thought  of  the  doctor's  advice. 
"  Sir  Graham,"  he   said,  speaking  with  obvious 
hesitation,  "  I — I  would  not  work." 


78  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"Why?" 

"  You  are  not  fit  to  bear  any  fatigue  at  present. 
Creation  will  inevitably  retard  your  recovery." 

"  I  am  not  ill  in  body,  and  work  is  the  only 
panacea  for  a  burdened  mind.  If  it  cannot  bring 
me  happiness,  at  least — " 

"  Happiness !  "  Uniacke  interrupted.  "  And 
what  may  not  bring  that !  Why,  Sir  Graham, 
even  death — should  that  be  regarded  as  a  curse  ? 
May  not  death  bring  the  greatest  happiness  of 
all  ?  " 

The  painter's  forehead  contracted,  but  the 
clergyman  continued  with  gathering  eagerness  and 
fervour: 

"  Often  when  I  pray  beside  a  little  dead  child, 
or — or  a  young  lad,  and  hear  the  mother  weep- 
ing, I  feel  more  keenly  than  at  any  other  time  the 
fact  that  blessings  descend  upon  the  earth.  The 
child  is  taken  in  innocence.  The  lad  is  bereft  of 
the  power  to  sin.  And  their  souls  are  surely  at 
peace." 

"At  peace,"  said  the  painter  heavily.  "Yes,  that 
is  something.  But  the  mother — the  mother 
weeps,  you  say." 

"  Human  love,  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world    must   still   be   earth-bound,    must   still  be 
selfish." 
"  But—" 

"  Sir  Graham,  I'll  confess  to  you  even  this,  that 
on  Sunday  evening,  when,  after  the  service,  we 
sang  that  hymn,  '  Lead,  Kindly  Light,'  I  thought 


THE   GRAVE.  79 

would  it  not  be  a  very  beautiful  thing  if  the  body 
mouldering  beneath  that  stone  in  the  churchyard 
yonder  were  indeed  the  body  of — of  your  won- 
der-child." 

"  Uniacke !  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  Don't  you  remember  how  he  looked 
up  from  his  sordid  misery  to  the  rainbow  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  ever  forget  it  ?  " 

"  Docs  that  teach  you  nothing?  " 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  the  painter  said : 

"  Death  may  be  beautiful,  but  only  after  life 
has  been  beautiful.  For  it  is  beautiful  to  live  as 
Jack  would  have  lived." 

"  Is  living — somewhere,"  interposed  Uniacke 
quickly. 

"  Perhaps.  I  can't  tell.  But  I  hear  the  mother 
weeping.     I  hear  the  mother  weeping." 

That  night  Uniacke  lay  long  awake.  He  heard 
the  sea  faintly.  Was  it  not  weeping  too?  It 
seemed  to  him  in  that  dark  hour  as  if  one  power 
alone  was  common  to  all  people  and  to  all  things 
— the  power  to  mourn. 

Next  day,  despite  Uniackc's  renewed  protests, 
Sir  Graham  began  to  paint  steadily.  The  clergy- 
man dared  not  object  too  strongly.  He  had  no 
right.  And  brain-sick  men  are  bad  to  deal  with. 
He  could  only  watch  over  Sir  Graham  craftily  and 
be  with  him  as  much  as  possible,  always  hoping 
that  the  painting  frenzy  would  desert  him,  and 
that  he  would  find  out  for  himself  tliat  his  health 
was  too  poor  to  endure  any  strain  of  labour. 


8o  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

The  moon  was  now  past  its  second  quarter,  and 
the  weather  continued  cold  and  clear.  Sir  Gra- 
ham and  Uniacke  went  out  several  times  by  night 
to  the  belfry  of  the  church,  and  the  painter  ob- 
served the  light  effects  through  the  narrow  win- 
dow. In  the  daytime  he  made  various  studies 
from  memory  of  these  effects.  And  presently 
Uniacke  began  to  grow  more  reconciled  to  this 
labour  of  wliich — prompted  by  the  doctor's  letter 
— he  had  at  first  been  so  much  afraid.  For  it 
really  seemed  that  toil  could  be  a  tonic  to  this 
man  as  to  many  other  men.  Sir  Graham  spoke 
less  of  little  Jack.  He  was  devoured  by  the  fever 
of  creation.  In  the  evenings  he  mused  on  his 
picture,  puffing  at  his  pipe.  He  no  longer  con- 
tinually displayed  his  morbid  sorrow,  or  sought  to 
discuss  at  length  the  powers  of  despair.  Uniacke 
was  beginning  to  feel  happier  about  him,  even  to 
doubt  the  doctor's  wisdom  in  denouncing  work  as 
a  danger,  when  something  happened  which  filled 
him  with  a  vague  apprehension. 

The  mad  Skipper,  whom  nothing  attracted, 
wandering  vacantly,  according  to  his  sad  custom, 
about  the  graveyard  and  in  the  church,  one  day 
ascended  to  the  belfry,  in  which  Sir  Graham  sat 
at  work  on  a  study  for  the  background  of  his 
picture.  Uniacke  was  with  his  friend  at  the 
time,  and  heard  the  Skipper's  heavy  and 
stumbling  footsteps  ascending  the  narrow  stone 
stairs. 

"  Who's  that  coming?  "  the  painter  asked. 


THE    GRAVE.  8 1 

"  The  Skipper,"  Uniacke  answered,  almost  under 
his  breath. 

In  another  minute  the  huge  seaman  appeared, 
clad  as  usual  in  jersey  and  peaked  cap,  his  large 
blue  eyes  full  of  an  animal  expression  of  vacant 
plaintiveness  and  staring  lack  of  thought.  He 
showed  no  astonishment  at  finding  intruders  estab- 
lished in  his  domain,  and  for  a  moment  Uniacke 
thought  he  would  quietly  turn  about  and  make 
his  way  down  again.  For,  after  a  short  pause,  he 
half  swung  round,  still  keeping  his  eyes  vaguely 
fixed  on  the  artist,  who  continued  to  paint  as  if 
quite  alone.  But  apparently  some  chord  of  curiosity 
had  been  struck  in  this  poor  and  benumbed  mind. 
For  the  big  man  wavered,  then  stole  rather  fur- 
tively forward,  and  fixed  his  sea-blue  eyes  on  the 
canvas,  upon  which  appeared  the  rough  wall  of 
the  belfry,  the  narrow  window,  with  a  section  of 
wild  sky  in  which  a  weary  moon  gleamed  faintly, 
and  the  dark  arch  of  the  stairway  up  which  the 
drowned  mariners  would  come  to  their  faithful 
captain.  The  Skipper  stared  at  all  this  inexpres- 
sively, turned  to  move  away,  paused,  waited.  Sir 
Graham  went  on  painting ;  and  the  Skipper  stayed. 
He  made  no  sound.  Uniacke  could  scarcely  hear 
him  breathing.  He  seemed  wrapped  in  dull  and 
wide-eyed  contemplation.  Only  when  at  last  Sir 
Graham  paused,  did  he  move  away  slowly  down 
the  stairs  with  his  loose-limbed,  .shuffling  gait, 
which  expressed  so  plainly  the  illness  of  his  mind. 

In     the    rectory  parlor,    a   few    minutes    later, 


82  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Uniacke  and  Sir  Graham  discussed  this  apparently 
trifling  incident.  A  feehng  of  unreasonable  alarm 
besieged  Uniacke's  soul,  but  he  strove  to  fight 
against  and  to  expel  it, 

"  How  quietly  he  stood,"  said  the  painter.  "  He 
seemed  strangely  interested." 

"  Yes,  strangely.  And  yet  his  eyes  were  quite 
vague  and  dull.     I  noticed  that." 

"  For  all  that,  Uniacke,  his  mind  may  be  wak- 
ing from  its  sleej^ 

"  Waking  from  its  sleep  ! "  said  Uniacke,  with 
a  sudden  sharpness.     "  No — impossible  !  " 

"  One  would  almost  think  you  desired  that  it 
should  not,"  rejoined  Sir  Graham,  with  obvious 
surprise. 

Uniacke  saw  that  he  had  been  foolishly  un- 
guarded. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  more  quietly,  "  I  only  fear 
that  the  poor  fellow  can  never  recover." 

'*  Why  not  ?  From  what  feeling,  from  what 
root  of  intelligence  does  his  interest  in  my  work 
spring  ?  May  it  not  be  that  he  vaguely  feels  as  if 
my  picture  were  connected  with  his  sorrow  ?  " 

Uniacke  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  impossible,"  continued 
Sir  Graham.  "  To-morrow  I  begin  to  make  studies 
for  the  figures.  If  he  comes  to  me  again,  I  shall 
sketch  him  in." 

Uniacke's  uneasiness  increased.  Something 
within  him  revolted  from  the  association  of  his 
guest  and  the  Skipper.     The  hidden  link  between 


THE    GRAVE.  83 

them  was  a  tragedy,  a  tragedy  that  had  wrecked  the 
reason  of  the  one,  the  peace  of  the  other.  They 
did  not  know  of  this  Hnk,  yet  there  seemed  horror 
in  such  a  companionship  as  theirs,  and  the  clergy- 
man was  seized  with  fear. 

"You  are  going  to  draw  your  figures  from 
models? "he  said,  slowly,  speaking  to  cover  his 
anxiety,  and  speaking  idly  enough. 

The  painter's  reply  struck  away  his  uncertainty, 
and  set  him  face  to  face  with  a  most  definite  dread. 

"  I  shall  have  models,"  said  Sir  Graham,  "  for 
all  the  figures  except  for  little  Jack.  I  can  draw 
him  from  memory.  I  can  reproduce  his  face.  It 
never  leaves  me." 

"  What  !  "  said  Uniacke.  "  You  will  paint  an 
exactly  truthful  portrait  of  him  then  ?" 

"  I  shall ;  only  idealised  by  death,  dignified, 
weird,  washed  by  the  sad  sea." 

"  The  Skipper  watched  you  while  you  were  paint- 
ing.    Me  saw  all  you  were  doing." 

"  Yes.     And  I  think  he'll  come  again." 

"  But  then— he'll— he'll  see—" 

The  clergyman  stopped  short. 

"See — sec  what?"  Sir  Graham  asked. 

"Himself,"  Uniacke  replied,  evasively.  "When 
you  paint  him  with  the  ropes  dropping  from  his 
hands.  May  it  not  agitate,  upset  him,  to  sec  him- 
self as  he  stands  ringing  those  bells  each  night? 
Ah  !  there  they  are  !  " 

It  wastwilight  now,  cold,  and  yc.Ilow,  and  grim  ; 
twilight    of  winter.     And   the  pathetic,  cheerless 


84  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

appeal  of  the  two  bells  stole  out  over  the  darken- 
ing  sea. 

"  Perhaps  it  may  agitate  him,"  Sir  Graham  said. 
"  What  then  ?  To  strike  a  sharp  blow  on  the 
gates  of  his  mind  might  be  to  do  him  a  good  ser- 
vice. A  shock  expelled  his  reason.  Might  not  a 
shock  recall  it  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell,"  Uniacke  said.  "  Such  an  experi- 
ment might  be  dangerous,  it  seems  io  me,  very 
dangerous." 

"  Dangerous  ?  " 

Uniacke  turned  away  rather  abruptly.  He 
could  not  tell  the  painter  what  was  in  his  mind,  his 
fear  that  the  mad  Skipper  might  recognise  the 
painted  face  of  the  dead  boy,  for  whom  he  waited, 
for  whom,  even  at  that  moment,  the  bells  were 
ringing.  And  if  the  Skipper  did  recognise  this 
face  that  he  knew  so  well — what  then  ?  What 
would  be  the  sequel  ?  Uniacke  thought  of  the 
doctor's  letter.  He  felt  as  if  a  net  were  closing 
round  him,  as  if  there  could  be  no  escape  from 
some  tragic  finale.  And  he  felt  too,  painfully,  as 
if  a  tragic  finale  were  all  that  he — he,  clergyman, 
liar,  trickster, — deserved.  His  conscience,  in  pres- 
ence of  a  shadow,  woke  again,  and  found  a  voice, 
and  told  him  that  evil  could  not  prevail  for  good, 
that  a  lie  could  not  twist  the  course  of  things 
from  paths  of  sorrow  to  paths  of  joy.  Did  not 
each  lie  call  aloud  to  danger,  saying,  "  Approach  ! 
approach  !  "  Did  not  each  subterfuge  stretch  out 
arms   beckoning    on    some    nameless   end  ?     He, 


THE   GRAVE.  8$ 

seemed  to  hear  soft  footsteps.  He  was  horribly 
afraid  and  wished  that,  in  the  beginning  of  his 
acquaintance  with  Sir  Graham,  he  had  dared  con- 
sequence and  spoken  truth.  Now  he  felt  like  a 
man  feebly  fighting  that  conqueror,  the  Inevitable, 
and  he  went  in  fear.     Yet  he  struggled  still. 

"  Sir  Graham,"  he  said,  on  the  following  day, 
"  forgive  me,  but  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  urge  you 
not  to  let  that  poor  fellow  watch  you  at  work.  It 
is  not  safe.  I  do  not  think  it  is  safe.  I  have  a 
strong  feeling  that — that  the  shock  of  seeing — " 

"Himself?" 

"  Exactly  ! — might  be  dangerous." 

"To  him?" 

"  Or  to  you.  That  is  my  feeling.  Possibly  to 
you.  He  is  not  sane,  and  though  he  seems  harm- 
less enough — " 

"  I'm  fully  prepared  to  take  the  risk,"  said  Sir 
Graham  abruptly,  and  with  a  return  of  his  old 
suspicious  expression.  "  I'm  not  afraid  of  the 
man." 

He  got  up  and  went  out.  The  mere  thought 
of  danger,  in  his  condition,  warmed  and  excited 
him.  He  iiad  resolved  before  actually  starting 
upon  his  picture  to  make  some  plciii  air  studies 
of  the  islanders.  Tiicrefore  he  now  made  his  way 
into  the  village,  engaged  a  fisher-lad  to  stand  to 
him,  returned  to  the  rectory  for  his  easel  and  set 
it  up  just  beyond  the  churchyard  wall.  He  posed 
the  shamefaced  and  giggling  boy  and  set  to  work. 
Uniackc  was  writing  in  the  small  bow-window,  or 


86  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

pretending  to  write.  Often  he  looked  out,  watch- 
ing the  painter,  waiting,  with  a  keen  anxiety,  to 
know  whether  the  interest  shown  in  his  work  by 
the  Skipper  was  only  the  passing  whim  of  insanity, 
or  whether  it  was  something  more  permanent, 
more  threatening  perhaps. 

The  painter  worked.  The  sailor  posed,  distend- 
ing his  rough  cheeks  with  self-conscious  laughter. 
Uniacke  watched.  It  seemed  that  the  Skipper 
was  not  coming.  Uniacke  felt  a  sense  of  relief. 
He  got  up  from  his  writing-table  at  last,  intending 
to  go  into  the  village.  As  he  did  so,  the  tall  form 
of  the  Skipper  came  into  view  in  the  distance. 
Dark,  bulky,  as  yet  far  off,  it  shambled  forward 
slowly,  hesitatingly,  over  the  short  grass  towards 
the  painter.  While  Uniacke  observed  it,  he 
thought  it  looked  definitely  animal.  It  ap- 
proached, making  detours,  like  a  dog,  furtive 
and  intent,  that  desires  to  draw  near  to  some 
object  without  seeming  to  do  so.  Slowly  it 
came,  tacking  this  way  and  that,  pausing  fre- 
quently as  if  uncertain  or  alarmed.  And  Uni- 
acke, standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  red  curtain, 
watched  its  movements,  fascinated.  He  did  not 
know  why,  but  he  had  a  sensation  that  Fate, 
loose-limbed,  big-boned,  furtive,  was  shambling 
over  the  grass  towards  his  guest.  Sir  Graham 
went  on  quietly  painting.  The  Skipper  made  a 
last  detour,  got  behind  the  painter,  stole  up  and 
peered  over  his  shoulder.  Once  there,  he  seemed 
spellbound.     For  he  stood  perfectly  still  and  never 


THE    GRAVE.  87 

took  his  large  blue  eyes  from  the  canvas.  Uniacke 
went  into  the  little  passage,  got  his  hat  and  hast- 
ened out,  impelled  yet  without  purpose.  As  he 
crossed  the  churchyard  he  saw  Sir  Graham  put 
something  into  the  sailor's  hand.  The  sailor 
touched  his  cap  awkwardly  and  rolled  off.  Uniacke 
hurried  forward. 

"  You've  finished  your  w^ork  ?  "  he  said,  coming 
up. 

Sir  Graham  turned  and  made  him  a  hasty  sign 
to  be  silent. 

"  Don't  alarm  him,"  he  whispered,  with  a  slight 
gesture  towards  the  Skipper,  who  stood  as  if  in 
a  vacant  reverie,  looking  at  the  painted  sailor 
boy. 

"  But — "  Uniacke  began. 

"  Hush  !  "  the  painter  murmured,  almost  angrily. 
"  Leave  us  alone  together." 

The  clergyman  moved  away  with  a  sinking 
heart.  Indefinable  dread  seized  him.  The  asso- 
ciation between  these  two  men  was  fraught  with 
unknown  peril.  lie  felt  that,  and  so  strongly, 
that  he  was  almost  tempted  to  defy  convention 
and  violently  interfere  to  put  an  end  to  it.  I^ut 
he  restrained  himself  and  returned  to  the  rectory, 
watching  the  two  motionless  figures  beyond  the 
churchyard  wall  from  the  parlour  window  as  from 
an  ambush,  with  an  intensity  of  expectation  that 
gave  him  the  bodily  sensation  of  a  man  clothed 
in  mail. 

In  the  late  afternoon  Sir  Graham  showed  him 


88  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

an  admirable  study  of  the  Skipper,  standing  with 
upraised  arms  as  if  ringing  the  church  bells,  his 
blue  eyes  fixed  as  if  he  scanned  a  distant  horizon, 
or  searched  the  endless  plains  of  the  sea  for  his 
lost  companions. 

"  Forgive  my  abruptness  this  morning,"  the 
painter  said.  "I  was  afraid  your  presence  would 
scare  the  Skipper." 

Uniacke  murmured  a  word  in  admiration  of  the 
painting. 

"And  to-morrow,"  he  added. 

"To-morrow  I  shall  start  on  the  picture,"  Sir 
Graham  replied. 

After  supper  he  drew  aside  the  blind  and  looked 
forth. 

"  The  moon  is  rising,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  go  out 
for  a  little  while.  I  want  to  observe  light  effects, 
and  to  think  over  what  I  am  going  to  do.  My 
mind  is  full  of  it,  Uniacke ;  I  think  it  should  be  a 
great  picture." 

His  eyes  were  shining  with  excitement.  He 
went  out.  He  was  away  a  long  time.  The  clock 
in  the  rectory  parlour  struckeleven, half-past  eleven, 
he  did  not  return.  Beginning  to  feel  anxious, 
Uniacke  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
night  was  quiet  and  clear,  bathed  in  the  radiance  of 
the  moon,  which  defined  objects  sharply.  The  dark 
figure  of  the  painter  was  approaching  the  house 
from  the  church.  Uniacke,  who  did  not  wish  to  be 
thought  curious,  drew  hastily  back  from  the  win- 
dow and  dropped  the  blind.    In  a  moment  Sir  Gra- 


THE   GRAVE.  89 

ham  entered.  He  was  extremely  pale  and  looked 
scared.  He  shut  the  door  very  hastily,  almost  as  if 
he  wished  to  prevent  someone  from  entering  after 
him.  Then  he  came  up  to  the  fire  without  a 
word. 

"You  are  late,"  Uniacke  said,  unpleasantly  af- 
fected, but  trying  to  speak  indifferently. 

"  Late,  am  I  ?     Why — what  time  is  it?" 

"  Nearly  midnight." 

"  Indeed.  I  forgot  the  hour.  I  was  engrossed. 
I — "  He  looked  up  hastily  and  looked  down  again. 
"A  most  strange,  most  unaccountable,  thing  has 
happened." 

"What?"  said  Uniacke.  "Surely  the  Skipper 
hasn't — " 

"No,  no.  It's  nothing  to  do  with  him.  I 
haven't  seen  him.  No,  no — but  the  most  unac- 
countable— how  long  have  I  been  out  there?" 

"  You  went  out  at  nine.  It's  a  quarter  to  twelve 
now." 

"  Two  hours  and  three-quarters !  I  should  have 
said  ten  minutes.  But  then — how  long  was  I  with 
it?" 

"With  it?"  repeated  Uniacke,  turning  cold. 

"Yes,  ye:; — how  long?  It  seemed  no  time — 
and  yet  an  eternity,  too." 

He  got  up  and  went  to  and  fro  uneasily  about 
the  room. 

"  Horrible  !  "  he  muttered,  as  if  to  himself.  "  Hor- 
rible!" 

He  stopped  suddenly  in  front  of  Uniacke. 


90  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"  Do  you  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  when  we  think 
very  steadily  and  intensely  of  a  thing  we  may,  per- 
haps, project — give  life,  as  it  were,  for  the  moment 
to  our  thought?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?"  said  Uniacke.  "It 
has  never  happened  to  mc  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"Why  do  I  ask?     Well,  I'll—" 

He  hesitated,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  Uniacke's 
face, 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you  what  took  place.  I  went  out 
thinking  of  my  picture,  of  its  composition,  of  the 
light  effect,  of  the  faces  of  the  drowned  men, 
especially  of  the  face  of  little  Jack.  I  seemed  to 
see  him  coming  into  that  belfry  tower — yes,  to 
greet  the  Skipper,  all  dripping  from  the  sea.  But 
— but — no,  Uniacke,  I'll  swear  that,  in  my  mind, 
I  saw  his  face  as  it  used  to  be.  That  was  natural, 
wasn't  it  ?  I  imagined  it  white,  with  wide,  staring 
eyes,  the  skin  wet  and  roughened  with  the  salt 
water.  But  that  v/as  all.  So  it  couldn't  have  been 
my  thought  projected,  because  I  had  never  im- 
agined— " 

He  was  evidently  engrossed  by  his  own  reflec- 
tions. His  eyes  had  an  inward  expression.  His 
voice  died  in  a  murmur,  almost  like  the  murmur 
of  one  who  babbles  in  sleep. 

"Never  had  imagined  what?"  said  Uniacke, 
sharply. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me.  I  cannot  understand  it.  As 
I  paced  in  the  churchyard,  thinking  of  my  picture, 
and  watching  the  moon  and  the  shadows  cast  by 


THE   GRAVE.  91 

the  church  and  by  the  stones  of  the  tombs,  I  came 
to  that  grave  by  the  wall." 

"  The  grave  of  the  boy  I  told  you  about  ?  "  said 
Uniacke  with  an  elaborate  indifference. 

"  Yes,  the  boy." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  stood  there  for  a  few  minutes,  or 
it  may  have  been  longer.  I  can't  tell  at  all.  I 
don't  think  I  was  even  aware  that  I  was  no  longer 
walking.  I  was  entirely  wrapped  up  in  my  medi- 
tations, I  believe.  I  saw  my  picture  before  me, 
the  Skipper,  the  dripping  sailors — Jack  first.  I  saw 
them  quite  distinctly  with  my  mental  vision.  And 
then,  by  degrees,  somehow  those  figures  in  the  pic- 
ture all  faded  into  darkness,  softly,  gradually,  till 
only  one  was  left — Jack.  He  was  still  there  in 
the  picture.  The  moonlight  through  the  narrow 
belfry  window  fell  on  him.  It  seemed  to  make  the 
salt  drops  sparkle,  almost  like  jewels,  in  his  hair, 
on  his  clothes.  I  looked  at  him, — mentally,  still. 
And,  while  I  looked,  the  moonlight,  I  thought, 
grew  stronger.  The  belfry  seemed  to  fade  away. 
The  figure  of  Jack  stood  out  in  the  light.  It  grew 
larger — larger.  It  reached  the  size  of  life.  And 
then,  as  I  stared  upon  it,  the  face  altered  before 
my  eyes.  It  became  older,  less  childish,  more 
firm  and  manly — but  oh,  Uniacke!  a  thousand 
times  more  horrible." 

"How?     How?" 

"Why,  it  became  puffy,  bloated,  drojisical. 
The  eyes  were  glazed  and  bloodshot.     On  the  lips 


92  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

there  was  foam.  The  fingers  of  the  hands  were 
twisted  and  distorted.  The  teeth  grinned  hid- 
eously. The  romance  of  death  dropped  away. 
The  filthy  reality  of  death  stood  before  me,  upon 
the  grave  of  that  boy." 

"  You  imagined  it,"  muttered  Uniacke. 

He  spoke  without  conviction. 

"  I  did  not.  I  saw  it.  For  now  I  knew  that  I 
was  no  longer  thinking  of  my  picture.  I  looked 
around  me  and  saw  the  small  clouds  and  the  night, 
the  moon  in  the  pale  sky,  the  black  church,  this 
house,  the  graves  like  creatures  lying  side  by  side 
asleep.  I  saw  them  all.  I  heard  the  dull  wash  of 
the  sea.  And  then  I  looked  again  at  that  grave, 
and  on  it  stood  Jack,  the  dead  thing  I  sent  to 
death,  bloated  and  silent,  staring  upon  me.  Silent 
— and  yet  I  seemed  to  feel  that  it  said,  '  This  is 
what  I  am.  Paint  mc  like  this.  Look  at  what 
the  sea  has  done  to  me  !  Look — look  at  what  the 
sea  has  done  ! ' — Uniacke  !  Uniacke  !  " 

He  sank  down  into  a  chair  and  stared  before 
him  with  terrible  eyes.  A  shudder  ran  over  the 
clergyman,  but  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  he  tried  to 
make  calm  and  consolatory, 

"  Of  course  it  was  your  fancy,  Sir  Graham.  You 
had  conjured  up  the  figures  in  your  picture. 
There  was  nothing  unnatural  in  your  seeing  one 
— the  one  you  had  known  in  life — more  distinctly 
than  the  others." 

"  I  had  not  known  it  like  that.  I  had  never 
imagined  anything  so  distorted,  so  horrible,  tragic 


THE   GRAVE.  93 

and  yet  almost  grotesque,  a  thing  for  the  foolish 
to — to  laugh  at,  ugh !  Besides,  it  stood  there. 
It  was  actually  there  on  that  grave,  as  if  it  had 
risen  out  of  that  grave,  Uniacke." 

"  Your  fancy." 

Uniacke  spoke  with  no  conviction,  and  his  lips 
were  pale. 

"  I  say  it  is  not.  The  thing — Jack,  come  to 
that ! — was  there.  Had  you  been  with  me,  you 
must  have  seen  it  as  I  did." 

Uniacke  shook  his  head. 

"  Believe  me,  Sir  Graham,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you 
ought  to  go  from  here.  The  everlasting  sound  of 
the  sea — the  presence  of  the  Skipper — your  idea 
for  this  terrible  picture — " 

"  Terrible  !  Yes,  I  see  it  must  be  terrible.  My 
conception — how  wrong  it  was  !  I  meant  to  make 
death  romantic,  almost  beautiful.  And  it  is  like 
that.  To-morrow — to-morrow — ah,  Jack  !  I  can 
paint  you  now  !  " 

lie  sprang  up  and  hurried  from  the  room. 
Uniacke  heard  him  pacing  up  and  down  above 
stairs  till  far  into  the  night. 

The  clergyman  was  deeply  and  sincerely  reh'g- 
ious,  but  he  was  in  nowise  a  superstitious  man. 
Association  with  Sir  Graham,  however,  and  the 
circumstances  attendant  upon  that  association,  had 
gradually  unnerved  him.  He  was  now  a  prey 
to  fear,  almost  to  horror.  Was  it  possible,  he 
thought,  as  he  sat  listening  to  that  eternal  footfall 
overhead,  that  Providence  permitted  a  spirit  to 


94  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

rise  from  the  very  grave  to  proclaim  his  lie,  and 
to  show  the  truth  in  a  most  hideous  form  ?  He 
could  almost  believe  so.  It  seemed  that  the  dead 
boy  resented  the  defacement  of  his  tomb,  resented 
the  deliberate  untruth  which  concealed  from  the 
painter  his  dreary  destiny,  and  came  up  out  of  the 
other  world  to  proclaim  the  clergyman's  deception. 
It  seemed  as  if  God  himself  fought  with  a  miracu- 
lous means  the  battle  of  truth  and  tore  aside  the 
veil  in  which  Uniacke  had  sought  to  shroud  the 
actuality  of  death.  Uniacke  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  speak  to  the  painter,  to  acknowledge  the 
trickery  resorted  to  for  a  sick  man's  sake.  But 
this  vision  of  the  night  paralysed  his  power  to 
make  any  further  effort  in  deception.  He  felt  be- 
numbed and  impotent.  A  Power  invisible  to  him 
fought  against  him.  He  could  only  lay  down  his 
weapons, — despicable,  unworthy,  as  they  were, — 
and  let  things  take  their  course,  while  he  looked 
on  as  one  in  a  sad  dream,  apprehensive  of  the 
ending  of  that  dream. 

Sir  Graham  began  his  picture  on  the  morrow. 
His  first  excitement  in  the  conception  of  it,  which 
had  been  almost  joyous,  was  now  become  feverish 
and  terrible.  He  was  seized  by  the  dreary  pas- 
sion of  the  gifted  man  who  means  to  use  his^gifts 
to  add  new  and  vital  horrors  to  the  horrors  of  life. 
He  no  longer  felt  the  pathos,  the  almost  exquisite 
romance,  of  his  subject.  He  felt  only  its  tragic, 
its  disgusting  terror.  While  he  painted  feverishly 
the  mad  Skipper  hovered  about  him,  with  eyes  still 


THE   GRAVE.  95 

vacant  but  a  manner  of  increasing  unrest.  It 
seemed  as  if  something  whispered  to  him  that  this 
work  of  a  stranger  had  some  connection  with  his 
life,  some  deep,  though  as  yet  undiscovered,  mean- 
ing for  him.  The  first  figure  in  the  picture  was 
the  Skipper  himself.  When  it  was  painted  the 
likeness  was  striking.  But  the  poor  mad  seaman 
stared  upon  it  with  an  ignorant  vagueness.  It 
was  evident  that  he  looked  without  seeing,  that 
he  obser\'cd  without  comprehending. 

"  Surely  he  will  not  know  Jack,"  Uniacke 
thought,  "  since  he  does  not  know  his  own  face." 

And  he  felt  a  faint  sense  of  relief.  But  this 
passed  away,  for  the  unrest  of  the  Skipper  seemed 
continually  to  grow  more  marked  and  seething. 
Uniacke  noticed  it  with  gathering  anxiety.  Sir 
Graham  did  not  observe  it.  Rethought  of  noth- 
ing but  his  work. 

"  I  shall  paint  Jack  last  of  all,"  he  said  grimly, 
to  Uniacke.  "  I  mean  to  make  a  crescendo  of 
horror,  and  in  Jack's  figure  the  loathsomeness  of 
death  shall  reach  a  climax.  Yes,  I  will  paint  him 
last  of  all.  Perhaps  he  will  come  again  and  pose 
for  mc  upon  that  grave."  And  he  laughed  as  he 
sat  before  his  easel. 

"  What  painter  ever  before  had  such  a  model  ?  " 
he  said  to  Uniacke. 

And  that  night  after  supper,  he  got  up  from 
the  table  saying : 

"  I  must  go  and  sec  if  Jack  will  give  mc  a  sitting 
to-night." 


96  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

Uniacke  rose  also. 

"  Let  me  come  with  you,"  he  said. 

Sir  Graham  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 
There  was  a  smile  on  his  lips,  but  his  eyes  were 
full  of  foreboding. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  Jack,  then  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  dreadful  feigning  of  jocularity.  "  But  you 
arc  not  a  painter.  You  require  no  model,  living 
or  dead."     He  burst  again  into  a  laugh. 

"  Let  me  come  with  you,"  the  clergyman 
repeated  doggedly. 

Sir  Graham  made  no  objection,  and  they  went 
out  together. 

The  moon  was  now  growing  towards  the  full, 
but  it  was  yet  low  in  the  sky,  and  the  night  was 
but  faintly  lit,  as  a  room  is  lit  by  a  heavily  shaded 
lamp.  Sir  Graham's  manner  lost  its  almost  pite- 
ous bluster  as  he  stood  on  the  doorstep  and  felt 
the  cold  wind  that  blew  from  the  wintry  sea.  lie 
set  his  lips,  and  his  face  twitched  with  nervous 
agitation  as  he  stole  a  furtive  glance  at  the  clergy- 
man, whose  soft  hat  was  pulled  down  low  over 
his  eyes  as  if  to  conceal  their  expression. 

The  two  men  Avalkcd  forward  slowly  into  the 
churchyard.  Uniacke's  heart  was  beating  with 
violence  and  his  mind  was  full  of  acute  anticipa- 
tion. Yet  he  would  scarcely  acknowledge  even 
to  himself  the  possibility  of  such  an  appearance 
as  that  affirmed  by  Sir  Graham.  They  drew  near 
to  the  grave  of  little  Jack,  round  which  the  chill 
winds  of  night   blew  gently  and  the  dull   voices 


THE    GRAVE.  97 

of  the  waves  sang  hushed  and  murmurous  noc- 
turnes. Uniacke  was  taken  b)'  an  almost  insur- 
mountable inclination  to  pause,  even  to  turn  back. 
Their  progress  to  this  grave  seemed  attended  by 
some  hidden  and  ghastly  danger.  He  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  painter's  arm,  as  if  to  withhold  him 
from  further  advance. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  Sir  Graham  asked,  speaking 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Uniacke,  dropping  his  hand. 

Sir  Graliam's  eyes  were  full  of  sombre  ques- 
tioning as  they  met  his.  Moving  slowly  on,  the 
two  men  stood  at  length  by  Jack's  grave.  The 
moon  rose  languidly,  and  shed  a  curious  and 
ethereal  twilight  upon  the  stone  at  its  head.  The 
blurred  place  from  which  Uniacke  had  struck  the 
name  was  plainly  visible.  Instinctively  the 
clergyman's  eyes  sought  the  spot  and  stared 
upon  it. 

"  Does  it  not  bear  all  the  appearance  of  having 
been  defaced  ?  "  said  Sir  Graham  in  his  ear. 

Uniacke  shook  his  head. 

"The  Skipper  would  have  it  so,"  he  murmured, 
full  of  a  heavy  sense  of  useless  contest  against  the 
determination  of  something  hidden  that  all  should 
be  known  to  his  companion,  perhaps  even  that 
very  night. 

They  waited,  as  mourners  wait  beside  a  tomb. 
As  the  moon  rose,  the  churchyard  grew  more  dis- 
tinct. The  surrounding  graves  came  into  view, 
the  crude  bulk  of  the    rectory,  the    outline  of  the 


98  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE 

church  tower,  and  the  long  wall  of  the  churchyard. 
On  the  white  faces  of  the  two  men  the  light  fell 
pitilessly,  revealing  the  strained  and  anxious  ex- 
pression of  Uniacke,  the  staring  watchfulness  of 
the  painter.  The  minutes  ran  by.  Uniacke  shiv- 
ered slightly  in  the  wind.  By  degrees  he  began  to 
lose  the  expectation  of  seeing  any  apparition. 
Presently  he  even  sneered  silently  at  himself  for 
his  folly  in  having  ever  entertained  it.  Neverthe- 
less he  was  strongly  affected  by  the  nearness  of 
the  wonder-child's  grave,  from  which  seemed  to 
emanate  an  influence  definite  and  searching,  and — 
so  he  felt — increasingly  hostile,  either  to  himself 
or  to  the  artist.  It  came  up  like  a  thing  that 
threatened.  It  crept  near  like  a  thing  that  would 
destroy.  Uniacke  wondered  whether  Sir  Graham 
was  conscious  of  it.  But  the  painter  said  nothing, 
and  the  clergyman  dared  not  ask  him.  At  length, 
however,  his  fanciful  sense  of  this  dead  power, 
speaking  as  it  were  from  the  ground  under 
his  feet,  became  so  intolerable  to  him  that  he  was 
resolved  to  go  ;  and  he  was  about  to  tell  Sir  Gra- 
ham of  his  intention  when  the  painter  suddenly 
caught  his  arm  in  a  tight  grip. 

"  There  it  is,"  he  whispered. 

He  was  staring  before  him  over  the  grave.  Uni- 
acke followed  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  short  grass 
stirring  faintly  in  the  night  wind.  He  thought  it 
looked  like  hair  bristling,  and  his  hair  moved  on  his 
head.  He  saw  the  churchyard  in  a  maze  of  moon- 
rays.     And  with  the  moonlight  had  come  many 


THE   GRAVE.  99 

shadows.  But  not  one  of  them  was  deceptive. 
Not  one  took  the  form  of  any  spectre.  Neverthe- 
less Uniacke  recoiled  from  this  Uttle  grave  at  his 
feet,  for  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  power  that 
had  been  sleeping  there  stirred,  forsook  its  recum- 
bent position,  rose  up  warily,  intent  on  coming 
forth  to  confront  him. 

"  You  see  it  ?  "  whispered  Sir  Graham,  still  keep- 
ing hold  of  his  arm. 

"  No,  no,  I  see  nothing;  there  is  nothing.  It's 
your  fancy,  your  imagination  that  plays  tricks  on 
you. 

"  No,  it's  Jack.  Oh,  Uniacke,  sec — see  how  he 
poses !  He  knows  that  I  shall  paint  him  to- 
morrow. How  horrible  he  is  !  Do  the  drowned 
always  look  like  that  ?  " 

"  Come  away,  Sir  Graham.  This  is  a  hideous 
hallucination.     Come  away." 

"  How  he  is  altered.  All  his  features  arecoars, 
cned,  bloated.  My  wonder-child!  lie  is  tragic 
now,  and  he  is  disgusting.  How  loathsomely  he 
twists  his  fingers  !  Must  I  paint  him  like  that — 
with  that  grinning,  ghastly  mouth — little  Jack? 
Ah  !  ah  !  He  poses — he  poses  always.  I  Ic  would 
have  me  paint  him  now, — here  in  the  moonlight 
— here — here — standing  on  this  grave  !  " 

"  Sir  Graham,  come  with  me ! "  exclaimed 
Uniacke. 

And  this  time  he  forcibly  drew  his  companion 
with  him  from  the  grave.  The  painter  seemed  in- 
clined to  resist  for  a  moment.      I  Ic  turned  his  head 


TOO  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

and  looked  long  and  eagerly  behind  him.  Then 
suddenly  he  acquiesced. 

"  It  has  gone,"  he  said.  "  You  have  driven  it 
away." 

Uniacke  hurried  forward  to  the  Rectory.  That 
night  he  implored  the  painter  for  the  last  time  to 
leave  the  island. 

"  Can't  you  feel,"  he  said,  almost  passionately, 
"  the  danger  you  are  running  here,  the  terrible 
danger  to  yourself?  The  sea  preys  upon  your 
mind.  You  ought  not  to  be  near  it.  Every 
murmur  of  the  waves  is  suggestive  to  your  ears. 
The  voices  of  those  bells  recall  to  your  mind  the 
drowning  of  men.  The  sight  of  that  poor  maniac 
depresses  you  perpetually.  Leave  the  sea.  Try  to 
forget  it.  I  tell  you.  Sir  Graham,  that  your  mind 
is  becoming  actually  diseased  from  incessant 
brooding.  It  begins  even  to  trick  your  eyes  in 
this  abominable  way." 

"  You  swear  you  saw  nothing  ?  " 

"  I  do.  There  was  nothing.  You  have  thought 
of  that  boy  until  you  actually  see  him  before  you." 

"Ashe  is?" 

"  As  he  is  not,  as  he  will  never  be." 

The  painter  got  up  from  his  chair,  came  over  to 
Uniacke,  and  looked  piercingly  into  his  eyes. 

"  Then  you  declare — onyour  honour asa priest," 
he  said  slowly,  "  that  you  do  not  know  that  my 
wonder-child  is  the  boy  who  is  buried  beneath  that 
stone?  " 

"  I  buried  that  boy,  and  I  declare  on  my  honour 


THE   GRAVE.  10 1 

as  a  priest  that  I  do  not  know  it,"  Uniacke 
answered,  desperately  but  unflinchingly. 

It  was  his  last  throw  for  this  man's  salvation. 

"  I  believe  you,"  the  painter  said. 

He  returned  to  the  fireplace,  and  leaned  his  face 
on  his  arm  against  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  repeated  presently.  "  I  have 
been  mistaken." 

"  Mistaken — how  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  have  thought  that  you  have  lied 
to  me." 

Uniackc's  heart  grew  heavier  at  the  words. 

In  the  morning  Sir  Graham  said  to  him,  with  a 
curious  calmness  : 

"  I  think  perhaps  you  arc  right,  Uniacke.  I 
have  been  considering  your  words,  your  advice." 

"  And  you  will  take  it  ?  "  Uniacke  said,  with  a 
sudden  enormous  sense  of  gratefulness. 

"  I  think  I  shall." 

"  Think — Sir  Graham  !  " 

"  I'll  decide  to-night.  I  must  have  the  day  to 
consider,  liut — yes,  you  arc  right.  That — that 
horrible  appearance.  I  suppose  it  must  be  evoked 
by  the  trickery  of  my  own  brain." 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  There  can  be  no  other  reason  for  it  ?  " 

"  None — none." 

"  Then — then,  yes,  I  had  better  go  from  here, 
liat  you  will  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  To  Londf)n  ?  " 

"  Anywhere — it  does  not  matter." 


102    tongup:s  of  conscience. 

He  looked  round  him  wistfully. 
"HI  am  to  leave  the  island,"   he  said  sorrow- 
fully,  "  it  docs  not  matter  where  I  go." 

"  To  London  then,"    Uniacke   said,  almost  joy- 
ously.     "  I  will  make  my  arrangements." 
"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow.  Yes.  Excuse  me  for  the  present. 
I  must  run  over  to  the  mainland  to  settle  about  the 
Sunday  services.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  hours." 
He  went  out,  feeling  as  if  a  weight  had  been 
lifted  from  brain  and  heart.  So  good  could  come 
out  of  evil.  Had  he  not  done  right  to  lie?  He 
began  to  believe  that  he  had.  As  he  crossed  to 
the  mainland  he  wrapped  himself  in  warm  and 
comfortable  sophistries.  The  wickedness  of  sub- 
terfuge vanished  now  that  subterfuge  was  found 
to  be  successful  in  attaining  a  desired  end.  For 
that  which  is  successful  seldom  appears  wholly 
evil.  To-day  Uniacke  glowed  in  the  fires  of  his 
sinfulness. 

He  transacted  his  business  on  the  mainland  and 
set  out  on  his  return  home,  driving  through  the 
shallow  sea  in  a  high  cart.  The  day,  which  had 
opened  in  sunshine,  was  now  become  grey,  very 
still  and  depressing.  An  intense  and  brooding 
silence  reigned,  broken  by  the  splashing  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  in  the  scarcely  ruffled  water,  and  by 
the  occasional  peevish  cackle  of  a  gull  hovering, 
on  purposeless  wings,  between  the  waters  and  the 
mists.  The  low  island  lay  in  the  dull  distance 
ahead,  wan  and  deprecatory  of  aspect,  like  a  thing 


THE    GRAVE.  103 

desirincf  to  be  left  alone  in  the  morose  embrace  of 
solitude.  Uniacke,  gazing  towards  it  out  of  the 
midst  of  the  sea,  longed  ardently  for  the  morrow 
when  Sir  Graham  would  be  caught  away  from  this 
pale  land  of  terror.  He  no  longer  blamed  himself 
for  what  he  had  done.  Conscience  was  asleep. 
He  exulted,  and  had  a  strange  feeling  that  God 
smiled  on  him  with  approval  of  his  sin. 

As  he  reached  the  island,  the  grey  pall  slightly 
lifted  and  light  broke  through  the  mist.  He  came 
up  out  of  the  sea,  and,  whipping  the  wet  and 
weary  horse,  drove  along  the  narrow  lanes  towards 
the  Rectory.  But  when  he  came  within  hail  of 
the  churchyard  all  his  abnormal  exultation  was 
suddenly  quenched,  and  the  oppressive  sense  of 
threatening  danger  which  had  for  so  long  a  time 
persecuted  him,  returned  with  painful  force.  He 
saw  ahead  of  him  Sir  Graham  seated  before  his 
easel  painting.  Behind  the  artist,  bending  down, 
his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  canvas,  his  huge 
hands  gripping  one  another  across  his  chest,  stood 
the  mad  Skipper.  As  the  wheels  of  the  cart 
ground  tlie  rough  road  by  the  churchyard  wall, 
Sir  Graham  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  I'm  doing  a  last  day's  work,"  he  called. 

Uniacke  stopped  the  cart  and  jumped  out.  The 
Skipper  never  moved.  His  eyes  never  left  the 
canvas.     He  seemed  utterly  absorbed. 

"  You  arc  not  working  on  the  picture  ?  "  said 
Uniacke  hastily. 

"  No." 


104  TOXGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"  Thank  God." 

"  Why  d'you  say  that  ?  " 

"  I — the  subject  was  so  horrible." 

"  This  is  only  a  study.  I  shall  leave  the  pic- 
ture as  I  am  leaving  the  Island.  Perhaps  some 
day — "  He  paused.  Then  he  said  :  "  I  call  this 
'  Sea  Change.'  Go  indoors.  In  about  half  an 
hour  I  will  come  and  fetch  you  to  see  it.  Where 
will  you  be  ?  " 

"  In  my  little  room  at  the  back  of  the  house.  I 
have  some  letters  to  write." 

"  I'll  come  there.  Don't  disturb  me,  till  then, 
I  think  the  picture  will  be  strange — and  I  hope 
beautiful." 

And  again  he  smiled.  Reassured,  Uniacke 
made  his  way  into  the  Rectory.  He  sat  down  at 
his  writing-table,  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote  a  few 
words  of  a  letter.  But  his  mind  wandered.  The 
pen  dropped  on  the  table  and  he  fell  into  thought. 
It  was  strangely  still  weather,  and  there  was  a 
strange  stillness  in  his  heart  and  conscience,  a 
calm  that  was  sweet  to  him.  He  felt  the  relief  of 
coming  to  an  end  after  a  journey  that  had  not 
been  without  dangers.  For,  during  his  intercourse 
with  Sir  Graham,  he  had  often  walked  upon  the 
edge  of  tragedy.  Now  he  no  longer  looked  down 
from  that  precipice.  He  leaned  his  arm  on  the 
table,  among  the  litter  of  papers  connected  with 
parish  affairs,  and  rested  his  head  in  his  hand. 
Almost  unconsciously,  at  that  moment  he  began 
to  rejoice  at  his  own   boldness  in  deviating  from 


THE   GRAVE.  I05 

the  strict  path  of  uncompromising  rectitude.  For 
he  thought  of  it  as  boldness,  and  of  his  former 
unyielding  adherence  to  the  principles  he  believed 
to  be  right,  as  timidity.  After  all,  he  said  to  him- 
self, it  is  easy  to  be  too  rigid,  too  strict.  In  all 
human  dealings  we  must  consider  not  only  our- 
selves, but  also  the  individuals  with  whom  we 
have  to  do.  Have  we  the  right  to  injure  them  by 
our  determination  to  take  care  of  the  welfare  of 
our  own  souls?  It  seemed  to  him  just  then  as  if 
virtue  was  often  merely  selfishness  and  implied  a 
lack  of  sympathy  with  others.  He  might  have 
refused  to  lie  and  destroyed  his  friend.  Would 
not  that  have  been  selfishness?  Would  not  that 
have  been  sheer  cowardice?  lie  told  himself  that 
it  would. 

Calm  flowed  upon  him.  He  was  lost  in  the 
day-dream  of  the  complacent  man  whose  load  of 
care  has  fallen  away  into  the  abyss  from  which  he 
has  fortunately  escaped.  The  silence  of  the  Island 
was  intense  to-day.  His  conscience  slept  with  the 
winds.  And  the  sea  slept  too  with  all  its  sorrow. 
He  sat  there  like  a  carvcn  figure  with  his  face  in 
his  hand.  And,  by  degrees,  he  ceased  to  feel,  to 
think  actively.  Conscious,  not  asleep,  with  oi)cn 
eyes  he  remained  in  a  placid  attitude,  lulled  in  the 
arms  of  a  quiet  happiness. 

He  was  distracted  at  length  by  some  sound  at 
a  distance.  It  broke  through  his  day-dream.  At 
first  he  could  not  tell  what  it  was,  but  presently 
he  became  aware  that  a  hoarse  voice   was  cjacu- 


I06  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

lating  some  word  outside,  probably  in  the  church- 
yard. He  took  his  hand  from  his  face,  sat  up 
straight  by  the  writing-table  and  began  to  listen, 
at  first  with  some  slight  irritation.  For  he  had 
been  happy  in  his  day-dream.  The  voice  outside 
repeated  the  word.  Uniacke  thought  of  the  street- 
cries  of  London  to  which  he  was  going,  and  that 
this  cry  was  hke  one  of  them.  He  heard  it  again. 
Now  it  was  nearer.  Short  and  sharp,  it  sounded 
both  angry  and — something  else — what  ?  Dolo- 
rous, he  fancied,  keen  with  a  horror  of  wonder  and 
of  despair.  He  remembered  where  he  was,  and 
that  he  had  never  before  heard  such  a  cry  on  the 
Island.  But  he  still  sat  by  the  table.  He  was 
listening  intently,  trying  to  hear  what  was  the 
word  the  voice  kept  perpetually  calling. 

"  Jack  !     Jack  !  " 

Uniacke  sprang  up,  pushing  back  his  chair  vio- 
lently. It  caught  in  a  rug  that  lay  on  the  bare 
wooden  floor  and  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  ground. 

"Jack!     Jack!" 

The  word  came  to  his  cars  now  in  a  sort  of 
strident  howl  that  w-as  hardly  human.  He  began 
to  tremble.  But  still  he  did  not  recognise  the 
voice. 

"  Jack  !  " 

It  was  cried  under  the  window  of  the  parlour, 
fiercely,  frantically.  Uniacke  knew  the  voice  for 
the  mad  Skipper's.  He  delayed  no  longer,  but 
hastened  to  the  front  room  and  stared  out  across 
the  churchyard. 


THE   GRAVE.  I07 

The  Skipper,  with  his  huge  hands  uplifted,  his 
fingers  working  as  if  they  strove  to  strangle  some- 
thing invisible  in  the  air,  was  stumbling  among 
the  graves.  His  face  was  red  and  convulsed  with 
excitement. 

"  Jack  !  "  he  shouted  hoarsely,  "  Jack  !  " 

And  he  went  on  desperately  towards  the  sea, 
pursuing — nothing. 

Uniacke  looked  away  from  him  towards  the 
place  where  Sir  Graham  had  been  painting.  The 
easel  stood  there  with  the  canvas  resting  upon  the 
wooden  pins.  On  the  ground  before  it  was  hud- 
dled a  dark  thing. 

Uniacke  went  out  from  his  house.  Although 
he  did  not  know  it  he  walked  very  slowly  as  if  he 
dragged  a  weight.  His  feet  trod  upon  the  graves. 
As  he  walked  he  could  hear  the  hoarse  shout  of 
the  skipper  dying  away  in  the  distance  towards 
the  sea. 

" Jack  ! " 

The  voice  faded  as  he  gained  the  churchyard 
wall. 

The  dark  thing  huddled  at  the  foot  of  the  easel 
was  the  painter's  dead  body.  On  his  discoloured 
throat  there  were  the  marks  of  fingers.  Mechanic- 
ally Uniacke  turned  his  eyes  from  those  purple 
and  red  marks  to  the  picture  the  dead  man  had 
been  painting.  He  saw  the  figure  of  a  boy  in  a 
seaman's  jersey  and  long  sea-boots  dripping  with 
water.  The  face  of  the  boy  was  pale  and  swollen. 
The  mouth  hung  down  hideously.     The  hair  was 


I08  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

matted  with  moisture.  Only  the  eyes  were  beau- 
tiful, for  they  looked  upward  with  a  rapt  and 
childlike  expression. 

"  He  sees  the  rainbow  !  "  murmured  the  clergy- 
man. 

And  he  fell  forward  against  the  churchyard  wall 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  arms.  The  voice  of 
the  grey  sea  was  very  loud  in  his  ears.  Darkness 
seemed  to  close  in  on  him.  He  had  done  evil  to 
do  good,  and  the  evil  he  had  done  had  been  in 
vain.  His  heart  beat  hard,  and  seemed  to  be  in 
his  throat  choking  him.  And  in  the  darkness  he 
saw  a  vision  of  a  dirty  child,  dressed  in  rags  and 
a  tall  paper  cap,  and  pointing  upwards. 

And  he  heard  a  voice,  that  sounded  far  off  and 
unearthly,  say : 

"  Look  at  that  there  rainbow  !  Look  at  that 
there  rainbow !  " 

He  wondered,  as  a  man  wonders  in  a  dream, 
whether  the  dead  artist  heard  the  voice  too,  but 
more  clearly — and  elsewhere. 


"WIILLIAM  FOSTER." 


"  WILLIAM  FOSTER." 


One  sad  cold  day  in  London,  city  of  sad  cold 
days,  a  man  in  a  Club  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do. 
He  had  glanced  through  the  morning  papers  and 
found  them  full  of  adjectives  and  empty  of  news. 
He  had  smoked  several  cigarettes.  He  had  ex- 
changed a  word  or  two  of  gossip  with  two  or 
three  acquaintances.  And  he  had  stared  moodily 
out  of  a  bow  window,  and  had  been  rewarded  by 
a  vision  of  wet  paving  stones,  wet  beggars  and 
wet  sparrows.  He  felt  depressed  and  inclined  to 
wonder  why  he  existed.  Turning  from  the 
window  to  the  long  room  at  his  back  he  saw  an 
elderly  Colonel  yawning,  with  a  sherry  and  bit- 
ters in  one  hand  and  a  toothpick  in  the  other. 
He  decided  not  to  remain  in  the  Club.  So  he 
took  his  hat  and  went  out  into  the  street.  It  was 
raining  in  the  street  and  he  had  no  umbrella.  He 
hailed  a  hansom  and  got  in. 

"  Where  to,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  cabby  through  the 
trap  door. 

"  What?"  said  the  man. 

"  Where  to,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  go  to— to " 


III 


112  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

He  tried  to  think  of  some  place  where  he  might 
contrive  to  pass  an  hour  or  two  agreeably. 

"  Sir  ?  "  said  the  cabby. 

"  Go  to  Madame  Tussaud's,"  said  the  man. 

It  was  the  only  place  he  could  think  of  at  the 
moment.  He  had  lived  in  London  for  years  but 
he  had  never  been  there.  He  had  never  had  the 
smallest  desire  to  go  there.  Wax  and  glass  eyes 
did  not  attract  him.  Dresses  that  hung  from 
corpses,  which  had  never  been  alive,  did  not 
appeal  to  him.  Nor  did  he  care  for  buns.  He 
had  never  been  to  Tussaud's.  He  was  only  going 
there  now  because  literally,  at  the  moment,  he 
knew  not  where  to  go.  He  leaned  back  in  the 
cab  and  looked  at  the  wet  pedestrians,  and  at  the 
puddles. 

When  the  cab  stopped  he  got  out  and  entered 
a  large  building.  He  paid  money  at  a  turnstile 
and  drifted  aimlessly  into  a  waxen  world.  Some 
fat  men  in  strange  costumes,  with  bulging  eyes 
like  black  velvet,  and  varying  expressions  of 
heavy  lethargy,  played  Hungarian  music  on  vio- 
lins. It  was  evident  that  they  did  not  thrill  them- 
selves. Their  aspect  was  at  the  same  time  fierce 
and  dull,  they  looked  like  volcanoes  that  had  been 
drenched  with  water.  The  man  passed  on,  the 
music  grew  softer  and  the  waxen  world  pressed 
more  closely  round.  Kings,  cricketers,  actresses, 
and  statesmen  beset  him  in  vistas.  He  trod  a 
maze  of  death  that  had  not  lived.  There  were 
very  few  school  treats  about,  for  the  fashionable 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  II3 

school  treat  season  had  not  yet  fully  set  in.  So 
the  man  had  the  wax  almost  entirely  to  himself. 
He  spread  his  wings  to  it  like  a  bird  to  the  air. 
By  degrees,  as  he  wandered — pursued  by  the  dis- 
tant music  from  the  drenched  volcanoes — a  feel- 
ing of  suffocation  overtook  him.  All  these  men 
and  women  about  him  stared  and  smiled,  but  all 
were  breathless.  They  wore  their  gaudy  clothes 
with  an  air,  no  doubt.  The  Kings  struck  regal 
attitudes.  The  cricketers  had  a  set  manner  of 
bringing  off  dreamy,  difficult  catches.  The 
actresses  were  properly  made  up  to  charm,  and 
the  statesmen  must  surely  have  brought  plenty 
of  empires  to  ruin,  if  insipidity  has  power  to 
cause  such  wreckage.  But  they  were  all  deci- 
sively breathless.  They  seemed  caught  by  some 
ghastly  physical  spell.  And  this  spell  was  laid 
also  upon  the  man  who  wandered  among  them. 
The  breath  of  life  withdrew  from  him  to  a  long, 
long  distance — he  fancied.  He  felt  as  one  who, 
taken  by  a  trance,  is  bereft  of  power  though  not 
of  knowledge.  The  staring  silence  was  as  the 
silence  of  a  tomb,  whose  walls  were  full  of  eyes, 
intent  and  fatigued.  He  started  when  a  person 
in  uniform,  hitherto  apparently  waxen,  said  in  a 
cockney  voice, 

"Sec  the  Chamber  of  Horrors,  sir ?  "  But  he 
recovered  in  time  to  acquiesce. 

He  descended  towards  a  subterranean  vault: 
as  if  to  a  lower  circle  of  this  inferno  full  of  breath- 
less (lemons.  I  Icrc  there  were  no  rustic  strangers, 
*3 


il4  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

no  clergymen  with  their  choirs,  no  elderly  ladies 
in  command  of  "  Bands  of  Hope."  The  silence 
was  great,  and  the  murderers  stood  together  in 
companies,  looking  this  way  and  that  as  if  in 
search  of  victims.  Some  sat  on  chairs  or  stools. 
Some  crouched  in  the  dock.  Some  prepared  for 
a  mock  expiation  in  their  best  clothes.  One  was 
at  work  in  his  house,  digging  in  quicklime  a  hole 
the  length  of  a  human  body.  His  waxen  visage 
gleamed  pale  in  the  dim  light,  and  he  appeared  to 
pause  in  his  digging  and  to  listen  for  sounds 
above  his  head.  For  he  was  in  the  cellar  of  his 
house. 

The  man  stood  still  and  looked  at  him.  He 
had  a  mean  face.  All  the  features  were  squeezed 
and  venom'^s,  and  expressive  of  criminal  desires 
and  of  extreme  cruelty.  And  so  it  was  with 
most  of  his  comrades.  They  varied  in  height,  in 
age,  in  social  status  and  in  colouring.  But  upon 
all  their  faces  was  the  same  frigid  expression,  a 
sort  of  thin  hatefulness  touched  with  sarcasm. 
The  man  wandered  on  among  them  and  saw  it 
everywhere,  on  the  lips  of  a  youth  in  rags,  in  the 
eyes  of  an  old  woman  in  a  bonnet,  lurking  in  the 
wrinkles  of  a  labourer,  at  rest  upon  the  narrow 
brow  of  a  doctor,  alive  in  the  puffed-out  wax 
of  an  attorney's  bloated  features.  Yes,  it  was 
easy  to  recognise  the  Devil's  hall-mark  on  them 
all,  he  thought.  And  he  wondered  a  little  how 
it  came  about  that  they  had  been  able,  in  so 
many  cases,  to   gain   the  confidence   of  their  un- 


««    TTTTT    T    I    .    ■.  r        T^^r^rr^T^-.^     " 


WILLIAM    FOSTER.  II5 

happy  victims.  Here,  for  instance,  were  the  man 
and  woman  who  had  lured  servant  girls  into  the 
depths  of  a  forest  and  there  murdered  them  for 
the  sake  of  their  boxes.  Even  the  silliest  girl, 
one  would  have  supposed,  must  have  fled  in 
terror  from  the  ape-like  cunning  of  those  wicked 
faces.  Here  was  the  housekeeper  who  had  made 
away  with  her  aged  mistress.  Surely  any  one 
with  the  smallest  power  of  observation  would 
have  refused  to  sit  in  the  evening,  to  sleep  at 
night,  in  company  with  so  horrible  a  countenance. 
Here  was  the  man  who  killed  his  paramour  with 
a  knife.  How  came  he  to  have  a  paramour? 
The  desire  to  kill  lurked  in  his  bony  cheeks,  his 
small,  intent  eyes,  his  narrow  slit  of  a  mouth,  but 
no  desire  to  love.  God  seemed  to  have  set  his 
warning  to  humanity  upon  each  of  these  creatures 
of  the  Devil.  Yet  they  had  deceived  mankind 
to  mankind's  undoing.  They  had  won  confidence, 
respect,  even  love. 

The  man  was  confused  by  this  knowledge,  as 
he  moved  among  them  in  the  dimness  and  the 
silence,  brushing  the  sleeve  of  one,  the  skirt  of 
another,  looking  into  the  curiously  expressive 
eyes  of  all.  But  presently  his  wondering  recog- 
nition of  the  world's  fatuous  and  frantic  gulli- 
bility ceased.  I'or  at  the  end  of  an  alley  of 
murderers  he  stood  before  a  woman.  She  was 
young,  pretty  and  distinguished  in  appearance. 
Her  features  were  small  and  delicate.  Her  brow 
was  noble.     Her  painted   mouth  was  tender  and 


Il6  TONGUES    OF   COXSCIE\XE. 

saintly;  and,  though  her  eyes  wcve  sightless, 
truth  and  nobility  surely  gazed  out  of  them.  For 
a  moment  the  man  was  seized  by  a  conviction 
that  a  mistake  had  been  made  by  the  proprietors 
of  the  establishment,  and  that  some  being, 
famous  for  charitable  deeds,  or  intellect,  or  heroic 
accomplishment  had  been  put  in  penance  among 
these  tragic  effigies.  He  glanced  at  her  number, 
consulted  his  catalogue,  and  found  that  this 
woman  was  named  Catherine  Sirrett,  and  that 
she  had  been  convicted  of  the  murder  of  her 
husband  by  poison  some  few  years  before.  Then 
he  looked  at  her  again  and,  before  this  criminal, 
he  felt  that  she  might,  nay,  must,  have  deceived 
any  man,  the  most  acute  and  enlightened  ob- 
server. No  one  could  have  looked  into  that  face 
and  seen  blackness  in  the  heart  of  that  woman. 
Everyone  must  have  trusted  her.  Many  must 
have  loved  her.  Her  appearance  inspired  more 
than  confidence — reverence  ;  there  was  something 
angelic  in  its  purity.  There  was  something  re- 
ligious in  its  quiet  gravity.  His  heart  grew 
heavy  as  he  looked  at  her,  heavy  with  a  horror 
far  more  great  than  any  that  had  overcome  him 
as  he  examined  the  bestial  company  around. 
And  when  he  came  away,  and  long  afterwards, 
Catherine  Sirrett's  face  remained  in  his  memory 
as  the  most  horrible  face  in  all  that  silent,  watch- 
ful crowd  of  beings  who  had  wrought  violence 
upon  the  earth.  For  it  was  dressed  in  deceit. 
The   other    faces   were    naked.     So  he  thought. 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  II7 

He  did  not  know  Catherine  Sirrett's  story, 
though  he  remembered  that  a  woman  of  her 
name  had  been  hanged  in  England  some  years 
before,  when  he  was  in  India,  and  that  she  had 
gained  many  sympathisers  by  her  bearing  and 
roused  some  newspaper  discussion  by  her  fate. 

This  is  her  story,  the  inner  story  which  the 
world  never  knew. 

•  ••••• 

Catherine  Sirrett's  mother  was  an  intensely, 
even  a  morbidly,  religious  woman.  Her  father 
was»an  atheist  and  an  aesthete.  Yet  her  parents 
were  fond  of  each  other  at  first  and  made  com- 
mon cause  in  spoiling  their  only  child.  Some- 
times the  mother  would  whisper  in  the  little 
girl's  ear  that  she  must  pray  for  poor  father  who 
was  blind  to  the  true  light  and  deaf  to  the  beau- 
tiful voice.  Sometimes  the  father  would  tell  her 
that  if  she  would  worship  she  must  worship 
genius,  the  poet,  the  painter,  the  musician  ;  that 
if  she  would  pray  she  must  pray  to  Nature,  the 
sea,  the  sunset  and  the  sj)ringtime.  But  as  a 
rule  these  two  loving  antagonists  thought  it  was 
enough  f(jr  their  baby,  their  treasure,  to  develop 
quietly,  steadily,  in  an  atmosphere  of  adoration, 
in  which  arose  no  mist  of  theories,  no  war  of 
words.  Till  slic  was  ten  years  old  Catherine  was 
untroubled.  At  that  age  a  parental  contest  began 
to  rage — at  first  furtively, — about  her.  With  the 
years  her  mother's  morbidity  waxed,  her  father's 
restraint  waned.     The  one  became  more  intensely 


Il8  TONGUES  OF   CONSCIENCE. 

and  frantically  devout,  the  other  n)ore  frankly 
pagan.  And  now,  as  the  child  grew,  and  her 
mind  and  heart  stood  up  to  meet  life  and  girl- 
hood, each  of  her  parents  began  to  feel  towards 
her  the  desire  of  sole  possession.  She  had  been 
brought  up  a  Christian.  The  father  had  per- 
mitted that.  So  long  as  she  was  an  ignorant  in- 
fant he  had  felt  no  anxiety  to  attach  her  to  his 
theories.  But  when  he  saw  the  intelligence  grow- 
ing in  her  eyes,  the  dawn  of  her  soul  deepening, 
there  stirred  within  him  a  strong  desire  that  she 
should  face  existence  as  he  faced  it,  free  from 
trammels  of  superstition.  The  mother,  with  the 
quick  intuition  of  woman,  soon  understood  his 
unexpressed  feeling  and  thrilled  with  religious 
fear.  Although — or  indeed  because — she  loved 
her  husband  so  much  she  was  tortured  by  his  lack 
of  faith.  And  now  she  was  alarmed  at  the 
thought  of  the  effect  his  influence  might  have 
upon  Catherine.  She  was  roused  to  an  intense 
activity  of  the  soul.  She  said  nothing  to  her 
husband  of  her  fear  and  horror.  He  said  nothing 
to  her  of  his  secret  determination  that  his  only 
child  should  grow  up  in  his  own  faithless  faith. 
But  a  silent  and  determined  battle  began  to  rage 
between  them  for  the  possession  of  Catherine's 
soul.  And,  at  last,  this  battle  turned  the  former 
love  of  the  parents  mto  a  sort  of  uneasy  hatred. 
The  child  did  not  fully  comprehend  what  was 
going  on  around  her,  but  she  dimly  felt  it.  And 
it  influenced  her  whole  nature. 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  IIQ 

Her  mother,  who  was  given  over  to  religious 
forms,  who  was  rituahstic  and  sentimental  as  well 
as  really  devout  and  fervent,  at  first  gained  the 
ascendancy  over  Catherine.  Holy  but  narrow- 
minded,  she  compressed  the  girl's  naturally  ex- 
pansive temperament,  and  taught  her  something 
of  the  hideous  and  brooding  melancholy  of  the 
bigot  and  the  fanatic.  Then  the  father,  quick- 
sighted,  and  roused  to  an  almost  angry  activity 
by  his  appreciation  of  Catherine's  danger,  threw 
himself  into  the  combat,  and  endeavoured  to  im- 
bue the  girl  with  his  own  comprehension  of  life's 
meaning,  exaggerating  all  his  theories  in  the  en- 
deavour to  make  them  seem  sufficiently  vital  and 
impressive.  Catherine  lived  in  the  centre  of  this 
battle,  which  became  continually  more  fierce,  un- 
til she  was  eighteen.  Then  she  fell  in  love  with 
Mark  Sirrett,  married  him,  and  left  her  parents 
alone  with  their  mutual  hostility,  now  compli- 
cated by  a  sort  of  paralysis  of  surprise  and  sense  of 
mutual  failure.  They  had  forgotten  that  their 
child's  future  might  hold  a  lover,  a  husband. 
Now  they  found  themselves  in  the  rather  absurd 
position  of  enemies  who  have  quarrelled  over  a 
shadow  which  suddenly  vanishes  away.  They 
had  lost  their  love  for  each  other,  they  had  lost 
Catherine.  But  her  soul,  though  it  was  given  to 
Mark  Sirrett,  had  not  lost  their  impress.  Both 
the  Puritanism  of  her  mother  and  the  paganism 
of  her  father  were  destined  to  play  their  parts  in 
the  guidance  of  her  strange   and  terrible  destiny. 


120  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Mark  Sirrctt,  \vhcn  he  married  Catherine,  was 
twenty-five,  dark',  handsome,  warm-hearted  and 
rich.  It  seemed  that  he  had  an  exceptionally 
sweet  and  attractive  nature.  He  had  been  an 
affectionate  son,  a  kind  brother  in  his  home,  a 
generous  comrade  at  school  and  college.  Every- 
body had  a  good  word  for  him  ;  his  family,  his 
tutors,  his  friends,  his  servants.  Like  most  young 
and  ardent  men  he  had  had  some  follies.  At  least 
they  were  never  mean  or  ungenerous.  He  entered 
upon  married  life  with  an  unusually  good  record. 
Those  who  knew  him  casually,  even  many  who 
knew  him  well,  considered  that  he  was  easily 
read,  that  he  was  transparently  frank,  that, 
though  highly  intelligent,  he  was  not  particularly 
subtle,  and  that  no  still  waters  ran  deep  in  Mark 
Sirrett.  All  these  people  were  utterly  wrong. 
Mark  had  a  very  curious  side  to  his  nature,  which 
remained  almost  unsuspected  until  after  his  mar- 
riage with  Catherine,  but  which  eventually  was 
to  make  a  name  very  well  known  to  the  world. 
He  was,  although  apparently  so  open,  in  reality 
full  of  reserve.  He  was  full  of  ambition.  And 
he  had  an  exceptionally  peculiar,  and  exception- 
ally riotous,  imagination.  And  this  imagination 
he  was  quite  determined  to  express  in  an  art — 
the  art  of  literature.  But  his  reserve  kept  him 
inactive  until  he  had  left  Oxford,  when  he  went 
to  live  in  London,  where  eventually  he  met  Cath- 
erine. 

His  reserve,  and  his  artistic  hesitation  to  work 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  121 

until  he  felt  able  to  do  good  work,  held  Mark's 
imagination  in  check  as  a  dam  holds  water  in 
check.  He  sometimes  wrote,  but  nobody  knew 
that  he  wrote  except  one  friend,  Frederic  Ber- 
rand.  And  Berrand  could  be  a  silent  man. 
Even  to  Catherine,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  her 
and  wooed  her,  Mark  did  not  reveal  his  desire 
for  fame,  or  his  intention  to  win  it.  The  girl 
loved  her  lover  for  what  he  was,  but  not  for  all 
he  was.  Of  the  still  water  that  ran  deep  she  as 
yet  knew  nothing.  Siie  thought  her  husband, 
who  was  rich,  who  appeared  gay,  who  had  lived 
so  far,  as  it  seemed,  idly  enough,  would  continue 
to  live  with  her,  as  he  had  apparently  lived  with- 
out her,  brightly,  honestly,  a  little  thoughtlessly, 
a  little  vainly. 

She  had  no  sort  of  suspicion  that  she  had 
married  that  very  curious  phenomenon — a  born 
artist.  Had  her  mother  suspected  it  s-he  would 
have  been  shocked.  Had  her  father  dreamed  it 
he  would  have  been  delighted.  And  Catherine 
herself  ?  well,  she  was  still  a  child  at  this  time. 

She  and  Mark  went  to  Spain  for  their  honey- 
moon, and  lived  in  a  tiny  white  villa  at  Granada. 
It  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  whose  crown  is 
the  exquisite  and  dream-like  Alhambra.  Itslong 
and  narrow  garden  ran  along  the  hillside,  a  slope 
of  roses  and  of  orange  flowers,  of  thick,  hot  grass 
and  of  tangled  green  shrubs.  The  garden  wall 
was  white  and  uneven,  and  almost  hidden  by 
wild,  pink  flowers.      Beneath  was  spread  the  plain 


122  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

in  which  lies  the  City,  bounded  by  the  mountains 
over  which,  each  evening,  the  sun  sets.  And 
every  day  the  d-rowsy  air  humm-ed  in  answer  to 
the  huge  and  drowsy  voice  of  the  wonderful  Ca- 
thedral bell,  which  struck  the  hours  and  filled 
this  lovely  world  with  almost  terrible  vibrations 
of  romance.  In  the  thick  woods  that  steal  to  the 
feet  of  the  ethereal  Palace  the  murmur  of  the 
streams  was  ever  heard,  and  the  white  snows  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada  stared  over  the  yellow  and 
russet  plain,  and  were  touched  with  a  blue  blush 
as  the  night  came  on. 

Catherine,  although  she  loved  her  parents  and 
had  never  fully  realised  the  enmity  grown  up  be- 
tween them,  felt  a  strange  happiness,  that  was 
more  than  the  happiness  of  new-born  passion,  in 
her  emancipation.  She  was  by  nature  exquisitely 
sensitive,  and  she  had  often  been  vaguely  troubled 
by  the  contest  between  her  parents.  Their  fight- 
ing instfncts  had  sometimes  set  her  face  to  face 
with  a  sort  of  shadowed  valley,  in  whose  black- 
ness she  faintly  heard  the  far-off  clash  of  weapons. 
Now  she  was  caught  away  from  this  subtle  tumult, 
and  as  she  looked  into  her  husband's  vivacious 
dark  eyes  she  felt  that  a  little  weight  which  had 
lain  loner  on  her  heart  was  lifted  from  it.  She 
had  thought  herself  happy  before,  now  she  knew 
herself  utterly  happy.  Life  seemed  to  have  no 
dark  background.  Even  love  itself  was  not 
spoiled  by  a  too  great  wonder  of  seriousness. 
They  loved  in  sunshine  and  were  gay — like  grass- 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER.  12$ 

hoppers  in  the  grass  that  the  sun  has  filled  with 
a  still  rapture  of  warmth.  Not  till  two  days  be- 
fore their  departure  for  England  was  this  chirp- 
ing, grasshopper  mood  disturbed  or  dispelled. 

At  one  end  of  the  long  and  narrow  garden 
there  was  a  little  crude  pavilion,  open  to  the  air 
on  three  sides.  The  domed  roof  was  supported 
on  painted  wooden  pillars  up  which  red  and 
white  roses  audaciously  climbed.  Rugs  covered 
the  floor.  A  wooden  railing  ran  along  the  front 
facing  the  steep  hillside.  The  furniture  was 
simple  and  homely,  a  few  low  basket  chairs  and 
an  oval  table.  In  this  pavilion  the  newly  mar- 
ried pair  took  tea  nearly  every  afternoon  after 
their  expeditions  in  the  neighbourhood,  or  their 
strolls  through  the  sunny  Moorish  Courts. 
After  tea  they  sat  on  and  watched  the  sunset, 
and  fancied  they  could  see  the  birds  that  flew 
away  above  the  City  towards  the  distant  mount- 
ains drop  down  to  their  nests  in  Seville  ere  the 
darkness  came.  This  last  evening  but  one  was 
intensely  hot ;  the  town  at  their  feet  seemed 
drowning  in  a  dust  of  gold.  Cries,  softened  and 
made  utterly  musical,  rose  up  to  them  from  this 
golden  world,  beyond  which  the  sky  reddened  as 
the  sun  sank  lower.  Sometimes  they  heard  the 
jingling  bells  of  mules  and  horses  in  the  hidden 
streets;  they  saw  the  pigeons  circling  above  the 
house-tops,  and  doll-like  figures  moving  whim- 
sically in  gardens  that  seemed  as  small  as  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.     Thin  laughter  of  playing  children 


124  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

stole  to  them.  And  then  the  huge  and  veiled 
voice  of  the  Cathedral  bell  tolled  the  hour,  like 
Time  become  articulate. 

A  voice  may  have  an  immense  influence  over  a 
sensitive  nature.  This  bell  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Granada  has  one  of  the  most  marvellous  voices 
in  the  world,  deep  with  a  depth  of  old  and  van- 
ished ages,  heavy  with  the  burden  of  all  the 
long-dead  years,  and  this  evening  it  seemed  sud- 
denly to  strike  away  a  veil  from  Catherine's 
husband.  She  was  leaning  her  arms  on  the 
painted  railing  and  searching  the  toy  city  with 
her  happy  eyes.  Mark,  standing  behind  her,  was 
solicitously  winding  a  shawl  round  her  to  protect 
her  from  the  chill  that  falls  from  the  Sierra  Ne- 
vada with  the  dropping  downward  of  the  sun. 
As  the  bell  tolled,  Catherine  felt  that  Mark's 
hands  slipped  from  her  shoulders.  She  glanced 
roundand  upat  him.  He  was  standing  rigid.  His 
eyes  were  widely  opened.  His  lips  were  parted. 
All  the  gaiety  that  usually  danced  in  his  face  had 
disappeared.      He  looked  like  an  entranced  man. 

"  Mark  !  "  Catherine  exclaimed.  "  Mark !  why, 
how  strange  you  look!  " 

"  Do  I  ? "  he  said,  staring  out  over  the  wide 
plain  below. 

The  voice  of  the  bell  died  reluctantly  on  the 
air,  but  some  huge  and  vague  echo  of  its  heavy 
romance  seemed  to  sway,  like  a  wave,  across  the 
little  houses  to  the  sunset  and  faint  towards 
Soiville. 


•t      ,TTTT      T     TAUT  T-^OT.T-n      " 


WILLIAM    FOSTER.  1 25 

"  Yes,  you  look  sad  and  stern.  I  have  never 
seen  your  face  like  this — till  now." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  Are  you  sad  because  we  are  going  so  soon  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  But  then  why  should  we  go  ?  We 
are  perfectly  happy  here.  There  is  nothing  to 
call  us  away." 

"  Kitty,  docs  not  that  bell  give  you  the  lie?" 
he  answered. 

"  The  bell  of  the  Cathedral  ? "  she  asked, 
wondering. 

"  Yes.  Just  now  when  I  listened  to  it,  I 
seemed  to  hear  it  whispering  of  the  mysterious 
things  of  life,  of  the  hidden  currents  in  the  great 
river,  of  the  sorrows,  of  the  terrors,  of  the 
crimes." 

"  Mark  !  "  said  Catherine  in  amazement. 

"  Nothing  to  call  us  away  from  our  idle  hap- 
piness here  !  "  he  continued.  **  Do  you  say — 
nothing  ?  " 

"  Why — no.  For  we  are  free  ;  we  have  no 
ties.  You  have  no  profession,  Mark.  You  have 
no  art  even  to  call  you  back  to  England.  Dear 
father — how  he  worships  the  arts  ! " 

"  And  you,  Kitty — you  ?" 

Mark  spoke  with  a  curious  pressure  of  excite- 
ment. 

"  He  has  taught  mc  to  love  them  too." 

"  How  mucii,  Kitty?  As  he  loves  them,  more 
than  anything  else  on  earth  ?  " 


126  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

She  had  never  heard  him  speak  at  all  like  this. 
She  answered  : 

"  Ah  no.     For  my  mother " 

She  paused. 

"  My  mother  has  made  me  understand  that 
there  is  something  greater  than  any  art,  more 
important,  more  beautiful." 

"  What  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mark  —religion  !  " 

He  leaned  over  the  railing  at  her  side,  and  the 
■white  and  red  roses  that  embraced  the  pillar 
shook  against  his  thick  dark  hair  in  the  infant 
breeze  of  evening. 

"  But  there  are  many  religions,"  he  said.  "  A 
man's  art  may  be  his  religion." 

A  troubled  look  came  into  her  eyes  and  made 
them  like  her  mother's. 

"  Oh  no,  Mark." 

"  Yes,  Kitty,"  he  said,  with  growing  earnest- 
ness, putting  aside  his  reserve  for  the  first  time 
with  her.     "  Indeed  it  may." 

"  You  mean  when  he  uses  it  to  do  good  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.     The  roses  shivered. 

**  The  true  artist  never  thinks  of  that.  To  have 
a  definite  moral  purpose  is  destructive." 

The  City  at  their  feet  was  sinking  into  shadow 
now,  and  the  air  grew  cold,  filled  with  the  snowy 
breath  of  the  Sierra. 

"  When  we  go  back  to  England  I  will  teach 
you  the  right  way  to  follow  an  art,  to  worship  it ; 
the  way  that  will  be  mine." 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  127 

"  Yours,  Mark?"     But  I  don't  understand." 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  understand  all  of 
me  yet,  Kitty.     Do  you  want  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  sound  of  fear  in  her  voice.  Mark 
sat  down  beside   her  and  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"  Kitty,"  he  began.  "  I'm  only  on  the  thresh- 
old of  my  life,  of  my  real  life,  my  life  with  you 
and  with  my  work." 

"  You  are  going  to  work  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes.  That  bell  just  now  seemed  to  strike 
the  hour  of  commencement — to  tell  me  it  was 
time  for  me  to  begin.  I  should  like,  some  day — 
far  in  the  future,  Kitty, — to  hear  it  strike  that 
other  hour,  the  hour  when  I  must  finish,  when 
the  little  bit  of  work  that  I  can  do  in  the  world 
is  done.  I  shan't  be  afraid  of  that  hour  any 
more  than  I'm  afraid  of  this  one.  Perhaps,  when 
you  and  I  are  old  we  shall  come  here  again,  and 
listen  to  that  bell  once  more,  the  same,  when  wc 
are  changed." 

He  pointed  towards  the  Cathedral  which  was 
still  touched  by  the  sun.  Catherine  leaned 
against  his  shoulder.  She  said  nothing,  and  did 
not  move. 

"  Everything  in  life  has  its  appointed  recorder," 
he  continued.  "  They  are  a  big  band,  the  band 
of  the  recorders  who  strive  accurately  to  write 
down  life  as  it  is.  Well,  Kitty,  I  am  going  to  be 
one  of  that  band." 

"  You  arc  going  to  be  a  writer,  Mark?" 


128  TONGUES   OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  you  will  record  the  beauty,  the  joy,  the 
purity,  the  goodness  of  life  ?  " 

His  usually  bright  face  had  become  sombre  and 
thoughtful.  It  looked  strangely  dark  and  satur- 
nine in  the  twilight. 

"  I  shall  record  what  I  see  most  clearly." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  Not  the  things  on  the  surface,  but  the  things 
beneath  the  surface,  of  life." 

And  then  he  told  Catherine  more  fully  of  his 
ambition  and  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  the  hidden 
side  of  his  duplex  nature. 

She  gazed  up  at  him  in  the  gathering  twilight 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  looking  at  a 
stranger.  The  climbing  roses  still  shook  against 
Mark  in  the  wind.  While  he  talked  his  voice 
grew  almost  fierce,  and  his  dark  eyes  shone  like 
the  eyes  of  a  fanatic.  When  he  ceased  to  speak, 
Catherine's  lips  were  pursed  together,  like  her 
mother's  when  she  listened  to  the  pagan  rhapso- 
dies of  Mr.  Ardagh. 

Two  days  later  the  Sirretts  left  Granada  for 
England. 


On  their  return  they  paid  a  short  visit  to 
Catherine's  parents,  who  were  living  in  Eaton 
Square.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ardagh  received  them 
with  a  sort  of  dulled  and  narcotic  affection.  In 
truth,  for  different  reasons,  the    Puritan  and  the 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  129 

pagan  cherished  a  certain  resentment  against  the 
man  who  had  stepped  in  and  robbed  them  of 
their  cause  of  warfare.  Nevertheless  they  desired 
his  company  in  their  house.  For  each  Avas  anxious 
to  study  him  and  to  discover  what  influence  he 
was  hkely  to  have  upon  Catherine.  During 
her  daughter's  absence  Mrs.  Ardagh  had  found 
the  emptiness  of  her  childless  life  insupportable, 
and  she  had,  therefore,  engaged  a  young  girl, 
called  Jenny  Levita,  to  come  to  her  every  day 
as  companion.  Jenny  was  intelligent  and  very 
poor,  bookish  and  earnest,  even  ardent  in  nature. 
Mrs.  Ardagh  gained  a  certain  amount  of  interest 
and  pleasure  from  forming  the  pliant  mind  of 
her  protd'gee,  who  was  with  her  always  from 
eleven  till  six  in  the  evening,  who  read  aloud  to 
her,  accompanied  her  on  her  charitable  missions, 
and  took — so  far  as  a  stranger  might, — the  place 
of  Catherine  in  her  life.  Catherine  met  Jenny 
upon  the  doorstep  of  her  parents'  house  on  the 
evening  of  her  arrival,  and  hastened  to  ask  her 
mother  who  the  slim  girl,  with  the  tall  figure, 
narrow  shoulders,  fluffy  brown  hair,  and  large 
oriental  eyes  was. 

"  My  paid  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Ardagh,  almost 
bitterly,  "  But  she  can't  fill  the  place  of  my  lost 
Catherine." 

Nevertheless,  Catherine  discovered  that  her 
mother  was  truly  attached  to  Jenny. 

"  I  took  her  partly  because  she  is  easily  led," 
she  said,  "  easily  influenced   and   so  very  jiretty 


130  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

and  poor.  I  want  to  save  her  for  God,  and  when 
I  met  her  there  was  one  who  wished  to  lead  her 
to  the  devil.  She  won't  see  him  now.  She  won't 
hear  his  name." 

Then  she  dropped  the  subject. 

Catherine  was  alternately  questioned  by  her 
father  and  by  her  mother  as  to  the  influence  of 
Mark.  But  something  within  her  prevented  her 
from  telling  them  of  the  conversation  in  the 
Pavilion,  when  the  cries  of  the  toy  city  died  down 
into  the  night.  Mrs.  Ardagh,  now  sinking  in  the 
confusion  of  a  rather  dreary  middle  age,  compli- 
cated by  a  natural  melancholy,  and  by  incessant 
confession  to  a  ritualistic  clergyman  seductive  in 
receptivity,  was  relieved  to  think  that  Mark  was 
harmless. 

Art  for  Art's  sake — the  motto  of  her  husband 
— had  apparently  little  meaning  for  Mark.  As 
Mrs.  Ardagh  thought  it  the  devil's  motto  she  was 
glad  of  this  and  said  so  to  Catherine.  Mr.  Ar- 
dagh, on  the  other  hand,  was  vexed  to  find  Mark 
apparently  so  frivolous  ;  and  he  also  expressed 
his  feelings  to  Catherine,  who  became  slightly 
confused. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  husband  doing 
something,"  he  said.  "You  have  much  of  me  in 
you.  Kit,  despite  your  poor  dear  mother's  extrav- 
agant attempts  to  limit  your  reading  to  Frances 
Ridley  Havergal.  Why  didn't  you  marry  an 
artist,  eh  ?  A  painter  or  an  author,  somebody 
•who  can  give  us  more  beauty  than  we  have  al- 


•'WILLIAM    FOSTER."  I3I 

ready,  or  more  truth  ?  You're  too  good  for 
P'rances  Ridley  Havergal.  Leave  her  to  your 
mother  and  that  girl,  Jenny,  who  is  like  wax  in 
your  mother's  hands  and  the  hands  of  the  Rev. 
Father  Grimshaw.     Piff !  " 

Catherine  said  nothing,  but  she  sought  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  something  of  Jenny.  She 
found  it,  just  before  the  day  on  which  she  and 
Mark  were  to  leave  London  for  their  country 
house.  Jenny  had  come  as  usual  one  morning, 
to  read  aloud  to  Mrs.  Ardagh.  They  were  just 
then  deep  in  the  "  Memoirs  "  of  a  certain  pious 
divine,  whose  chief  claim  upon  the  attention  and 
gratitude  of  posterity  seemed  to  be  that,  during 
a  very  long  career,  he  had  "  confessed "  more 
Anglican  notabilities  than  any  of  his  rivals,  and 
had  used  up,  in  his  church,  an  amount  of  incense 
that  would  have  put  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  to 
shame.  On  the  morning  in  question  the  reading 
was  interrupted.  Mrs.  Ardagh  was  called  away 
to  consult  with  a  lay-worker  in  the  slums  upon 
some  scheme  for  reclaiming  the  submerged 
masses,  and  Catherine,  running  in  to  her  mother's 
boudoir  after  a  walk  with  Mark,  found  the  tall, 
narrow-shouldered  girl  with  the  oriental  eyes 
sitting  alone  with  the  apostolic  memoirs  lying 
open  upon  her  knees.  Catherine  was  not  sorry. 
She  took  off  her  fur  coat  and  sat  down. 

"  What  are  you  and  my  mother  reading,  Miss 
Levita  ?  "  she  asked. 

Jenny  told  her. 


132  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Is  it  interesting?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  ought  to  be,"  Jenny  answered, 
thoughtlessly. 

Then  a  flush  ran  over  her  thin  cheeks,  on  which 
there  were  a  great  many  little  freckles. 

"  I  mean  that  it  is  very  interesting,"  she 
added.  "  Your  mother  will  tell  you  so,  Mrs. 
Sirrett." 

"  Perhaps.     But  I  was  asking  your  opinion." 

It  struck  Catherine  that  Jenny  had  her  opinion 
and  was  scarcely  as  compliant  as  Mr.  Ardagh  evi- 
dently supposed  her  to  be.  At  Catherine's  last  re- 
mark Jenny  glanced  up.  The  two  girls  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and,  in  Jenny's,  Catherine 
thought  she  saw  a  flickering  defiance. 

"  I  was  asking  your  opinion,"  she  repeated. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Sirrett,"  Jenny  said,  more  hardily, 
•*'  I  don't  know  why  it  is.  I  admire  and  love 
goodness,  yes,  as  your  mother — who's  a  saint,  I 
think — does.  But  I'll  tell  you  frankly  that  I 
think  it's  often  very  dull  to  read  about.  Don't 
you  think  so?  " 

She  blushed  again,  and  let  the  heavy  white  lids 
droop  over  her  eyes,  which  had  glittered  almost 
like  the  eyes  of  a  fever  patient  while  she  was 
speaking. 

"  Only  when  dull  people  write  about  it,  surely," 
said  Catherine. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Jenny  said,  twisting  her  black 
stuff  dress  with  nervous  fingers.  "  I  often  think 
that  in  the  books  of  the  cleverest  authors  there  are 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  133 

dull  moments,  and  that  those  dull  moments  are 
nearly  always  when  the  good,  the  really  excellent, 
characters  are  being  written  about." 

"  And  in  real  life.  Miss  Levita  ?  "  asked  Cath- 
erine. "  Do  you  find  the  good  people  duller,  less 
interesting,  than  the  bad  ones  in  real  life  ?  " 

:'  I  haven't  known  many  very  bad  ones,  Mrs. 
Sirrett." 

"  Well — but  those  you  have  known  !  " 

Jenny  hesitated.  She  was  obviously  cmbar- 
rassed.  She  even  shifted,  like  an  awkward  child, 
in  her  chair.  But  there  was  something  of  obsti- 
nate honesty  in  her  that  would  have  its  way. 

"If  you  must  know, — I  mean,  if  you  care  to 
know,  please,"  she  said  at  length,  "  the  most 
interesting  person  I  ever  met  was — yes,  I  sup- 
pose he  was  a  wicked  man." 

Her  curious,  sharp-featured,  yet  attractive,  face 
was  hot  all  over  as  she  finished.  Catherine  divined 
at  once  that  she  was  speaking  of  the  person  who, 
according  to  Mrs.  Ardagh,  had  wished  "  to  lead 
her  to  the  devil."  At  this  moment,  while  the 
two  girls  were  silent,  Mrs.  Ardagh  returned  to 
the  room.  As  Catherine  left  it  she  heard  the  soft 
and  high  V(jice  of  Jenny  taking  u[)  once  more  the 
parable  of  the  highly-honoured  divine. 

Catherine  was  not  allf)<r(.tli(  r  sorry  when  .she 
and  her  husband  left  Katon  Square  for  the  house 
in  Surrey  which  Mark  had  rented  for  the  summer 
months. 

In  this  house  the  young  couple  were  lu  face  for 


'l34  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

the  first  time  the  reality  of  married  life.  Hitherto 
they  had  only  faced  its  romance. 

The  house  was  beautiful  in  an  old-fashioned 
way.  Its  rooms  were  low  and  rather  dark.  A 
wood  stood  round  it.  The  garden  was  a  wild  clear- 
ing, fringed  with  enormous  clumps  of  rhododen- 
dron. Wood  doves  cooed  in  the  trees  like  in- 
visible lovers  unable  to  cease  from  gushing. 
Under  the  trees  ferns  grew  in  masses.  Squirrels 
swarmed,  and  in  the  huge  rhododendron  flowers 
the  bees  lost  themselves  in  an  ecstasy  of  sipping 
sensuality.  It  was  a  fine  summer,  and  this  house 
was  made  to  be  a  summer  house.  In  winter  it 
must  have  been  but  a  dreary  hermitage. 

The  servants  greeted  them  respectfully.  The 
horses  neighed  in  the  stables.  The  dogs  barked, 
and  leaped  up  in  welcome,  then,  when  they  were 
noticed  and  patted,  depressed  their  backs  in 
joyous  humility,  and,  lifting  their  flexible  lips, 
grinned  amorously,  glancing  sideways  from  the 
hands  that  they  desired.  It  was  an  eminently 
unvulgar,  and  ought  to  have  been  a  very  sweet, 
home-coming. 

But  was  it  sweet  to  Catherine  ? 

She  asked  herself  that  question,  and  the  fact 
that  she  did  so  proved  that  it  was  not  wholly 
sweet.  Already  the  future  oppressed  her.  In 
this  house,  which  seemed  full  of  the  smell  of  the 
country,  of  the  very  odour  of  peace,  she  felt  that 
the  stranger,  the  second  Mark — scarcely  known 
to    her   as   yet — was   to   be   born,    was   to   gain 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  I35 

Strength  and  grow.  She  feared  him.  She  watched 
for  him.  But,  for  the  first  few  days,  he  did  not 
show  himself.  The  grasshoppers  chirped  and  rev- 
elled in  the  grass.  Mark  and  Catherine  sat  in 
the  wood,  wandered  on  the  hills,  rode  in  the 
valleys,  cooed  a  little  even,  like  the  doves  hidden 
in  the  green  shadows  of  the  glades,  and  making 
ceaseless  music.  The  lovers — for  they  were  still 
lovers  at  this  time — made  a  gay  dreamland  for 
themselves.  But  dreams  cannot  and  ought  not 
to  last.  If  they  did  they  would  become  pain- 
fully enervating.  One  day,  in  the  wood,  Mark 
resumed  the  conversation  of  the  Pavilion. 

"  Because  I  am  rich  I  must  not  be  idle,  Kitty," 
he  said. 

And  into  his  dark  eyes  there  crept  that  look  of 
the  stranger  man. 

"  Thank  God  that  I  am  rich,"  he  added. 

"Why,  Mark  dear?" 

"  Because  I  can  dare  to  do  what  sort  of  work 
I  choose,"  he  answered.  "  The  pot  boils  without 
my  labour.  So  I  am  independent  of  the  public, 
whom  I  will  win  in  my  own  way.  If  I  have  to 
wait  it  will  not  matter." 

And  then,  speaking  with  growing  enthusiasm, 
he  gave  Kitty  a  sketch  of  a  book  he  had  pro- 
jected. The  doves  cooed  all  tliroiw^h  the  plot, 
which  was  a  sad  and  terrible  one,  very  uncommon 
and  very  unlike  Mark.  Catherine  listened  to  it 
with,  alternately,  the  mind  of  her  father  and  the 
mind  of  her  mother.     It  was  the  old  antagonism 


136  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

of  the  Puritan  and  the  pagan.  But  now  it  raged 
in  one  person  instead  of  in  two,  as  the  girl  sat 
under  the  soft  darkness  of  the  trees,  listening  to 
the  eager  voice  of  her  boy  husband,  who  was  be- 
ginning at  last  to  cast  the  skin  of  his  reserve. 
The  voice  went  on  and  on,  interrupted  only  by 
the  doves.  But  sometimes  Catherine  felt  as  if 
she  leaned  upon  the  painted  railing  of  the  Pavil- 
ion, and  heard  the  distant  cries  of  the  golden 
City.     At  last  Mark  said, 

"  Kitty,  that  is  what  I  mean  to  do." 

"  It  is  terrible,"  she  said. 

And  she  pursed  her  lips  like  her  mother. 

"  Yes,"  Mark  answered,  with  enthusiasm.  "  It 
is  terrible.     It  is  ghastly." 

Catherine  looked  at  him  with  an  intense  and 
growing  surprise.  She  was  wondering  how  the 
conception  of  such  horrors  could  take  place  in  a 
man  so  gay  as  Mark. 

At  last  she  said, 

"  Mark,  you  feel  your  own  power,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Kitty,"  he  replied  quietly,  almost  modestly, 
yet  with  a  firm  gravity  that  was  strong,  "  I  do 
feel  that  I  have  something  to  say  and  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  say  it  in  my  book.  I  have  waited 
a  long  while.  Now  I  believe  that  I  am  ready, 
that  it  is  time  for  me  to  begin." 

"  Then,  Mark,  if  you  feel  that  you  have  this 
power,  don't  you  feel  a  desire  to  conquer  the 
greatest  difificulties  in  your  art,  to  show  that  you 
can  succeed  where  otlicrs  have  failed  ?  " 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  137 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  realising  that  she 
had  something  to  say  to  him,  and  that  she  was 
trying  to  prepare  the  way  before  it. 

"  Come,  Kitty,"  he  said.  "  Say  what  you  wish 
to  say.     You  have  the  right.     What  is  it  ?  " 

Catherine  told  him  of  her  conversation  with 
Jenny. 

"That  little  thin  girl,"  he  said.  "So  she 
thinks  wickedness  more  interesting,  more  many- 
sided  than  virtue,  more  dramatic  in  its  possibil- 
ities. Well,  she  and  I  arc  agreed.  But  what 
was  it  you  wanted  ?  " 

"  Mark,  I  want  you  to  prove  to  her — to  every- 
one— that  it  is  not  so." 

"How?" 

"  By  writing  a  different  kind  of  book — a  noble 
book.  You  can  do  it.  Where  others  have 
failed,  you  can  succeed." 

He  laughed  at  her,  gaily. 

"  Perhaps,  some  day,  I'll  try,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  can  only  write  at  present  what  I  have  con- 
ceived. Till  this  book  is  done,  I  can  think  of 
nothing  else.  I  see  you  are  interested,  Kitty. 
I  must  tell  you  all  I  am  intending  to  do." 

He  continued,  until  it  was  quite  evening,  ex- 
patiating on  the  force  with  which  he  intended  to 
realise  in  literature  the  terrors  that  trooped  in 
his  imagination.  And  by  the  time  ho  had  fin- 
ished and  darkness  stood  under  tlie  trees,  Cath- 
erine was  carried  away  by  the  pagan  spirit.  She 
thought  no  more  of  the  possible  harm    the  pro- 


138  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

jccted  book  might  work  in  sensitive  natures. 
She  thought  only  of  its  power,  which  she 
acclaimed. 

.Mark  kissed  her  with  a  solemnity  of  passion  he 
had  never  shown  before,  and  they  went  back  to 
the  house. 

It  was  an  immense  relief  to  Mark  to  open  his 
book  of  revelation  and  to  allow  Catherine  to  read 
these  pages  in  it.  But  he  could  not  be  contin- 
uously unreserved  to  any  human  being.  And 
that  evening  he  subsided  into  his  former  light- 
hearted  gaiety,  and  shrouded  the  stranger  man 
in  an  impenetrable  veil.  Catherine  sat  with  him 
in  wonderment,  while  the  moon  came  up  behind 
the  trees  and  shone  over  the  clearing  before  the 
house.  She  did  not  yet  understand  the  inflexible 
secrecies  of  genius.  A  nightingale  sang.  Its 
voice  was  so  sweet  that  Catherine  felt  as  if  the 
whole  world  were  full  of  tenderness  and  of  sym- 
pathy. She  said  so  to  Mark,  just  as  she  was 
turning  from  him  to  go  to  bed. 

"  Ah,  Kitty,"  he  said,  "  there  are  other  things 
in  the  world  besides  tenderness  and  sympathy, 
thank  Heaven.  There  are  terrors,  there  are 
crimes,  there  are  strange  and  fearful  things  both 
within  us  and  outside  of  us." 

"  How  sad  that  is,  Mark  ! "  said  Catherine. 

He  smiled  at  her  gaily — cruelly,  she  thought  a 
moment  afterwards  when  she  was  alone  in  her 
bedroom. 

"  Sad  ?  "  he  said.     "  I  don't  think  so,  for  I  love 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  139 

drama.  Life  is  dramatic.  If  it  were  not  it  would 
be  intolerable." 

And  still  the  nightingale  sang.  But  he  did  not 
hear  it.     Catherine  heard  it  till  she  fell  asleep. 

Now  Mark  began  to  write  with  assiduity. 
Catherine  busied  herself  with  her  household 
duties,  with  the  garden  and  with  charities  in  the 
neighbouring  Parish.  Her  mother's  rather  hyster- 
ical beliefs  lost  their  hysteria  in  her,  at  this  period, 
and  were  softened  and  rendered  large  hearted. 
Catherine's  sympathy  with  the  world  was  indeed 
a  living  thing,  not  simply  a  fine  idea.  While 
Mark  was  shut  up  every  morning  with  his  writing 
6he  visited  the  poor,  sat  by  the  sick,  and  played 
with  the  village  children.  The  Parish — this  came 
out  forcibly  at  her  trial, — grew  to  love  her.  She 
was  the  prettiest  Lady  Bountiful.  The  impress 
made  upon  her  by  her  mother  was  visible  in  all 
this.  For  Mrs.  Ardagh,  rigid,  melancholy  as 
she  was  sometimes,  was  genuinely  charitable, 
genuinely  dutiful.  If  she  adored  the  forms  of 
religion  she  loved  also  its  essence, — the  doing  of 
good.  In  these  many  mornings  Catherine  was 
like  her  mother — improved.  But  in  the  evenings 
she  no  longer  resembled  Mrs.  Ardagh,  but  rather, 
in  a  degree,  echoed  licr  father,  and  responded  to 
his  vehement,  if  furtive,  teachings.  For  in  the 
evenings  Mark  read  to  her  what  he  had  written 
during  the  day  and  discussed  it  with  her  in  all 
its  bearings.  He  recognised  the  clear  quickness 
of    '^Catherine's    intellect.      Yet     she    very    soon 


140  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

noticed  that  he  was  exceedingly  inflexible  with 
regard  to  his  work.  He  liked  to  discuss,  he  did 
not  like  to  alter,  it. 

One  night,  when  he  had  finished  the  last  com- 
pleted chapter,  he  laid  down  the  manuscript  and 
said, 

"Well,  Kitty?" 

Catherine  was  lying  on  a  couch  near  tlic  open 
French  window.  She  did  not  speak  until  Mark 
repeated, 

"Well?" 

Then  she  said, 

'•  I  think  that  far  the  finest  chapter  of  your 
book " 

Mark  smiled  triumphantly. 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  terribly  immoral,"  she 
finished. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,  dear.  So  long  as  it  is 
properly  worked  out,  inevitable." 

"  It  teaches " 

"Nothing,  Kitty — nothing.  It  mere-ly  describes 
what  is." 

"  But  surely  it  may  do  harm." 

"  Not  if  it  is  truly  artistic.  And  you 
think " 

"  It  that  ?  Yes,  I  do.  But,  Mark,  art  is  not 
all." 

"  Your  father  would  say  so." 

"  My  father — yes." 

"  And  he  is  right.  I  neither  inculcate  nor  do 
I  condemn.     I  only  produce,  or  try  to  produce,  a 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  I4I 

work  of  art.  You  admire  the  chapter  ?  You 
think  it  truly  dramatic  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do — that's  just  why  I  am  afraid  of 
it. 

"  Little  timorous  bird." 

He  came  over  to  the  sofa  and  kissed  her  ten- 
derly. She  shivered.  She  thought  his  lips  had 
never  been  dry  and  cold  like  that  before. 

The  book  was  finished  by  the  end  of  the  sum- 
mer. It  was  published  in  November  and  created 
a  considerable  sensation.  Mark  issued  it  under 
the  name  of  "  William  Foster."  Only  Catherine 
and  his  friend  Frederic  Bcrrand  knew  who  Will- 
iam Foster  really  was.  Tiie  newspapers  praised 
the  workmanship  of  the  book  almost  universally. 
But  many  of  them  severely  condemned  it  as 
dangerous,  morbidly  imaginative,  horrible  in  sub- 
ject, and  likely  to  do  great  mischief  because  of 
its  undoubted  power  and  charm.  It  was  for- 
bidden at  some  libraries. 

Mark  was  delighted  with  its  reception.  Now, 
that  he  had  brought  forth  his  child,  he  seemed 
more  light-hearted,  gay  and  boyish  than  ever. 
His  too  vivid  imagination  had  been  toiling.  It 
rested  now.  Catherine  and  he  came  up  to  town 
for  the  winter.  They  meant  to  spend  only  their 
summers  in  Surrey.  They  took  a  house  in 
Chester  Street,  and  often  dined  with  the  Ardnghs 
in  I^aton  Square.  At  one  of  these  dinners  Jenny 
Tcvita  was  present.  Mark,  remembering  what 
Catherine    liad    twl<l    him    about    her   in   Surrey, 


1^2  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

looked  at  her  with  some  interest,  and  talked  to 
her  a  little  in  his  most  light-hearted  way.  She 
replied  briefly  and  without  much  apparent  ani- 
mation, seeming  indeed  rather  absent-minded  and 
distraite.     Presently  Mr.  Ardagh  said, 

"  This  new  man,  William  Foster,  is  that  very 
rare  thing  in  England — a  pitiless  artist.  He  has 
the  audacity  of  genius  and  the  fine  impersonality." 

Catherine  started  and  flushed  violently.  As 
she  did  so  she  saw  Jenny's  long  dark  eyes  fixed 
earnestly  upon  her.  ]\Iark  smiled  slightly.  Mrs. 
Ardagh  looked  pained. 

"  His  book  is  doing  frightful  harm,  I  am 
sure,"  she  said. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband. 
"  Nothing  so  absolutely  right,  so  absolutely 
artistic,  can  do  harm." 

An  obstinate  expression  came  into  Mrs.  Ar- 
dagh's  face,  but  she  said  nothing.  Catherine 
looked  down  at  her  plate.  She  felt  as  if  small 
needles  were  pricking  her  all  over. 

"  Have  you  read  the  book  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ardagh 
to  his  wife. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  It  was  recommended  to 
me.     I  began  it  not  knowing  what   sort  of   book 

it  was. 

"And  did  you  finish  it?"  asked  her  husband, 
with  rather  a  satirical  smile. 

"Yes.  I  confess  I  could  not  leave  off  reading 
it.  That  is  why  it  is  so  dangerous.  It  is  both 
powerful  and  evil." 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  143 

Then  the  subject  dropped.  Mark  was  still 
smiling  quietly,  but  Catherine's  face  Avas  grave. 
When  she  and  her  mother  and  Jenny  went  up 
into  the  drawing-room,  leaving  the  men  to  their 
cigarettes,  Catherine  recurred  to  the  subject  of 
"  William  Foster's  "  book. 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  a  novel  can  do 
serious  harm,  mother?"  she  began.  "  After  all, 
it  is  only  a  work  of  the  imagination.  Surely 
people  read  it  and  forget  it,  as  they  would  not 
forget  an  actual  fact." 

Mrs.  Ardagh  sighed  wearily.  She  was  a  pale 
woman  with  feverish  eyes.  The  expression  in 
them  grew  almost  fierce  as  she  answered, 

"  It  is  the  black  imagination  of  this  William 
Foster  that   will    come  like  a   suffocating   cloud 

upon  the  imagi-nations  of  others,  especially  of " 

She  suddenly  broke  off.  Catherine,  wondering 
why,  glanced  up  at  her  mother  and  saw  that  she 
was  looking  towards  the  far  end  of  the  big  draw- 
ing-room. Jenny  was  sitting  there,  under  a 
shaded  lamp.  She  had  some  work  in  her  hands 
but  her  hands  were  still,  llcr  head  was  turned 
away,  but  her  attitude,  the  curve  of  her  soft,  long, 
white  throat,  the  absolute  immobility  of  her  thin 
body  betrayed  the  fact  that  she  was  listening 
attentively. 

"  I  would  not  let  that  child  read  William 
Foster's  book  for  the  world,"  Mrs.  Ardagh 
whispered  to  Catherine. 

Then   she    changed   the   subject,  and    spoke  of 


T44  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

some  charity  that  she  was  interested  in  at  the 
East  End  of  London.  Jenny's  hands  instantly 
began  to  move  about  her  embroidery. 

That  night  Catherine  spoke  to  Mark  of  what 
her  mother  had  said. 

He  only  laughed. 

"  I  cannot  write  for  any  one  person,  Kitty,"  he 
said,  "  or  if  I  do  it  must  be " 

"  For  whom  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Myself,"  he  replied. 

Catherine  slept  very  badly  that  night.  She 
was  thinking  of  William  Foster  and  of  Mark. 
They  seemed  to  her  two  different  men.  And  she 
had  married — which  ? 

Mark  did  no  work  in  London.  He  knew  too 
many  people,  he  said,  and  besides,  he  wanted  to 
rest.  Catherine  and  he  went  out  a  great  deal 
into  society.  At  Christmas  they  ran  over  to 
Paris  and  spent  three  weeks  there.  During  this 
holiday  William  Foster,  it  almost  seemed,  had 
ceased  to  exist.  Mark  Sirrett  was  light-hearted, 
gay,  and  the  kindest,  most  thoughtful  husband 
in  the  world.  When  they  came  back  to  London, 
Catherine  went  at  once  to  see  her  mother.  Mr. 
Ardagh  had  gone  to  the  Riviera  and  Catherine 
found  Mrs.  Ardagh  quite  alone  in  the  big  house 
in  Eaton  Square. 

"  Why,  where  is  Jenny  Levita?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Ardagh  made  no  reply  for  a  moment. 
Her  face,  which  was  rather  straw-colour  than 
white,  worked  grotesquely  as  if  under  the  influ- 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  I45 

ence  of  some  strong  emotion  that  she  was  trying 
to  suppress.  At  length  she  said,  in  a  chill,  husky 
voice, 

"  Jenny  has  left  me." 

"  Left  you— why  ?  " 

"  She  was  taken  away  from  me.  She  was  taken 
back  to  the  sin  from  which  I  hoped  I  had  rescued 
her." 

"  Oh,  mother  !     By  whom  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ardagh  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"  William  Foster,"  she  answered. 

Catherine  felt  cold  and  numb. 

"  William  Foster — I  don't  understand,"  she 
said  slowly. 

Mrs.  Ardagh  rolled  and  unrolled  her  handker- 
chief with  trembling  fingers. 

"  She  got  hold  of  that  book — that  black,  wicked 
book,"  she  said,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  fury  in 
her  voice.  "  It  upset  her  faith.  It  tarnished  her 
moral  sense.  It  reminded  her  of  the — the  man 
from  whose  influence  I  had  drawn  her.  All  her 
imagination  was  set  in  a  flame  by  that  hateful 
chapter." 

"Which  one?"  Catherine  asked. 

Mrs.  Ardagh  mentioned  the  chapter  which 
Catherine  had  most  hated,  most  admired,  and 
most  feared. 

"  T  fonrrht  with  William  Foster  for  Jenny's 
soul,"  she  said,  passionately.  "  But  I  am  not 
clever.  I  have  no  power.  I  am  getting  old  and 
tired.     She   cried.      She   i;aid   she   loved   me,  but 


146  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

that  goodness  was  not  for  her,  that  she  must  go, 
that  life  was  calHng  her,  that  she  must  live — 
live !  William  Foster  had  shown  her  death  and 
she  thought  it  life.  I  always  knew  that  in  Jenny- 
good  and  evil  were  fighting,  that  her  fate  was 
trembling  in  the  balance.  That  book  turned  the 
e. 

She  sobbed  heavily,  then  with  a  catch  of  her 
breath,  she  added, 

"  William  Foster  is  a  very  wicked  man." 

Catherine  (lushed  all  over  her  face.  But  she 
said  nothing.  That  night  she  told  Mark  of 
Jenny's  fate.  She  expected  him  to  be  grieved. 
But  he  was  not. 

•'  An  author  who  respects  his  art  cannot  con- 
sider every  hysterical  girl  while  he  is  writing,"  he 
said.  "And,  besides,  it  is  only  your  mother's 
idea  that  she  was  influenced  by  my  book.  Long 
ago  she  showed  you  the  bent  of  her  mind." 

"  But,  Mark,  don't  you  remember  how  that 
chapter  struck  me  when  you  first  read  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  remember  that  you  thought  it  the  finest 
chapter  in  the  book,  and  you  were  right,  Kitty. 
You've  got  artistic  discernment,  like  your  father. 
Berrand  and  you  would  get  on  together.  Di- 
rectly he  comes  back  Fll  introduce  you  to  each 
other." 

Catherine  said  no  more.  From  that  time  she 
devoted  herself  more  than  ever  to  her  mother, 
who  now,  under  the  influence  of  sorrow,  allowed 
her  nature  to  come  to  its  full  flower.     Abandon- 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  I47 

ing  the  pleasures  of  society,  which  had  long 
wearied  her,  she  gave  herself  up  to  services,  char- 
ities and  good  works  in  the  poor  parts  of  London. 
She  carried  Catherine  with  her  on  many  of  her 
expeditions,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  her 
fervour  and  curious  exaltation  had  a  marked 
effect  upon  the  girl.  Catherine  had  always  been 
highly  susceptible  to  influence,  but  she  had  been 
during  most  of  her  life  attacked  perpetually  by 
two  absolutely  opposite  influences.  Now  one  of 
these,  her  father's,  was  removed  from  her.  She 
came  more  than  ever  before  under  her  mother's 
domination.  For  Mark,  when  he  was  not  "  Will- 
iam Foster,"  was  simply  a  high-spirited  and 
happy  youth,  full  of  energy  and  of  apparently 
normal  desires  and  intentions.  He  had  that  sort 
of  genius  which  can  be  long  asleep  in  the  dark, 
while  its  possessor  dances,  like  a  mote,  in  sun- 
shine. 

In  the  spring  the  Sirretts  made  ready  to  leave 
London.  As  the  day  drew  near  for  their  de- 
parture Mark's  manner  changed,  and  he  dis- 
played symptoms  of  restlessness  and  of  impa- 
tience. Catherine  noticed  them  and  asked  their 
reason. 

"I  am  longing  to  return  to  '  William  Foster,* 
Kitty,"  he  said. 

She  felt  a  sharp  pain  at  her  heart,  but  she  only 
smiled  and  replied, 

"  I  almost  thought  you  had  forgotten  him." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  preparing  to 
meet  him  again  all  these  months." 


148  TONGUES    OF   CONSCIENCE. 

His  dark  eyes  shone  as  he  spoke.  And  once 
again  that  stranger  stood  before  Catherine.  She 
turned  and  went  upstairs,  saying  that  she  must 
see  to  her  packing.  But  when  she  was  alone  in 
her  bedroom  she  shed  some  tears.  That  after- 
noon she  went  to  Eaton  Square  to  bid  her  mother 
good-bye.     Mrs.  Ardagh  was  looking  unhappy. 

"  Your  father  returns  from  Italy  on  Wednes- 
day," she  said.     "  You'll  just  miss  him." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  mother,"  Catherine  said. 

Mrs.  Ardagh  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment.    Then  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  I  am  not." 

"Mother— but  why?" 

"  I  think  you  are  better  away  from  him.  My 
heart  tells  me  so.  Oh,  Kitty,  I  thank  God  every 
day  of  my  life  that  Mark  is — is  such  a  good  fellow, 
without  those  terrible  ideas  and  theories  of  your 
poor  father.     You  cannot  think  what  I  suffer." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  spoken  so 
plainly  on  the  subject,  and  even  now  she  quickly 
changed  to  another  topic.  Mark  had  never  in- 
troduced poor  Mrs.  Ardagh  to  "  William  Foster." 
And  Catherine  would  not  add  another  burden  to 
those  she  already  had  to  bear. 

Surrey  was  looking  very  lovely  in  the  spring 
weather.  The  trees  were  just  beginning  to  let 
out  the  tips  of  their  green  secrets.  The  ground 
was  dashed  with  blue  and  with  yellow,  where 
bloomed  those  flowers  that  are  the  sweetest  of 
the  year  because  they   come  the   first,  and  whis« 


KlTTTTTTAir         T-^On-T-T^" 


WILLIAM    FOSTER.  149 

per  wonderful  promises  in  the  ears  of  all  who 
love  them.  There  had  been  some  rain  and  the 
grass  of  lawns  and  hillsides  was  exquisite  in  the 
startling-  freshness  of  its  vivid  colour.  Nature 
seemed  uneasy  with  delight,  like  a  child  on  a 
birthday  morning.  The  tender  beauty  of  every- 
thing around  her  reassured  Catherine,  who  had 
come  from  town  in  a  mood  of  strange  apprehen- 
sion. As  she  looked  at  the  expectant  woods 
awaiting  their  lovely  costume  in  fragile  nudity,  at 
the  violets  that  seemed  to  sing  in  odours,  at  that 
pale  and  shallow  sky  which  is  a  herald  of  the 
deeper  skies  to  come,  it  seemed  to  her  impossible 
that  Mark,  who  could  be  so  blithe,  so  radiant, 
could  turn  to  dark  imaginings  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere of  exquisite  enterprise.  Slie  was  filled  with 
hope  and  with  a  species  of  religious  optimism. 
Some  days  passed,  Catherine  and  Mark  spent 
them  in  a  renewal  of  friendship  with  their  do- 
main. They  were  like  two  children  and  were 
gayer  than  the  spring.  Then  one  evening  Mark 
said, 

"  And  now,  Kitty,  I  am  going  to  start  work 
again.  Ik-rrand  has  written  that  he  will  be  in  Eng- 
land next  week  and  will  come  on  here  at  once. 
But  he  won't  disturb  mc.  And  my  scheme  is 
ready." 

Catherine  felt  tlie  breath  fluttering  in  her 
throat  as  she  murmured, 

"Your  scheme  is  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes.     It's  a  great  one.     Berrand    thinks  so. 


I50  TONGUES  OP^    CONSCIENCE. 

I  have  written  sometliing  of  it  to  him.  I  am 
going  to  trace  the  downfall  of  a  nature  from 
nobility  to  utter  degradation." 

His  eyes  sparkled  with  enthusiasm,  as  he  re- 
peated in  thrilling  tones, 

"  Utter  degradation." 

Catherine  thought  of  the  spring  night,  in 
which  such  holy  preparations  for  joy  were  silently 
being  carried  on,  of  all  the  youthful  things  just 
coming  into  life.  An  inspiration  came  to  her. 
She  caught  her  husband's  hand  and  drew  him  to 
the  window. 

"  Pull  up  the  blind,  Mark,"  she  said. 

He  obeyed,  smiling  at  her  as  if  in  wonder  at 
this  freak. 

"  Now  open  the  window." 

"  Yes,  dear.     There  !     What  next  ?  " 

In  front  of  the  window  there  was  a  riband  of 
pavement  protected  by  an  overhanging  section 
of  roof.  Catherine  stepped  out  on  this  pavement. 
Mark  followed  her.  They  stood  together  facing 
the  spring  night.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the 
sky  was  clear  and  starlit.  Nature  seemed  breath- 
ing quietly,  like  a  thing  alive  but  asleep.  The 
surrounding  woods  were  a  dusky  wall.  The  clear- 
ing was  a  vague  sea  of  dew.  And  the  air  was 
full  of  that  wonderful  scent  that  all  things  seem 
to  have  in  spring.  It  is  like  the  perfume  of  life, 
of  life  that  God  has  consecrated,  of  life  that  might 
have  been  in  Eden.  It  is  odorous  with  hope.  It 
stings  and  embraces.     It  stirs  the  imagination  to 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER.  iSl 

maG:Ic.  It  stirs  the  heart  to  tears.  For  it  is 
ineffably  beautiful  and  expectant. 

"  How  delicious  !  "  Mark  said. 

Catherine's  hand  tightened  on  his  arm. 

"  The  trees  are  talking,"  he  said.  "  That  damp 
scent  comes  from  their  roots,  and  the  flowers  and 
grasses  round  them." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  gasp  of  pleasure. 

"Yes?"  Catherine  said. 

He  bent  down  and  touched  the  lawn  with  his 
hand. 

"  What  a  dew  !  Look,  Kitty,  there  goes  a  rab- 
bit!  " 

A  hunched  shadow  suddenly  flattened  and 
vanished. 

"Little  beggar!  He's  gone  into  the  wood. 
What  a  jolly  time  he  and  his  relations  must  have." 

"  Yes,  Mark.  Isn't  the  night  happy,  and  the 
spring?  " 

He  drew  in  his  breath  again. 

"Yes." 

"  Mark ! " 

"Well,  dear?" 

"  Mark — don't  write  this  book." 

Mark  started  slightly  with  surprise. 

"  Kitty  !  what  arc  you  saying  ?  " 

"  Write  a  happy  book." 

"  My  dear  babe — how  uninteresting  !  " 

"  Write  a  good  book,  a  book  to  make  people 
better  and  happier." 

"  A  book  with  a  purpose  !     No,  Kitty." 


152  TONGUES  OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  Well  then,  a  spring  book.  This  night  isn't  a 
night  with  a  purpose,  because  it's  lovely." 

He  laughed  quite  gaily. 

"  Humorist !  Why  did  you  bring  me  out  into 
it?" 

"To  influence  you  against  that  book." 

He  was  silent. 

"Are  you  angry,  Mark?" 

"  No,  dear." 

"Will  you  do  what  I  ask?" 

"No,  Kitty." 

He  spoke  very  quietly  and  gently,  then 
changed  the  subject,  talked  of  the  coming  sum- 
mer, the  garden,  prospective  pleasures.  But  he 
talked  no  more  of  his  work.  Next  day  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  study,  and  thenceforward  his 
life  became  a  repetition  of  his  life  during  the 
previous  summer.  A  fortnight  later  Frederic 
Berrand  arrived. 

Catherine  had  long  felt  an  eager  desire  to  see 
this  one  intimate  friend  of  Mark's.  She  expected 
him  to  be  no  ordinary  man,  and  she  was  not  mis- 
taken. Berrand  was  much  older  than  Mark.  He 
looked  about  forty.  He  was  thin,  sallow,  eager 
in  manner,  with  shining  eyes — almost  toad-like — 
a  yellowish-white  complexion,  and  coal-black 
hair.  His  vivacity  was  un-English,  yet  at  the 
back  of  his  nature  there  lay  surely  a  stagnant 
reservoir  of  melancholy.  He  was  a  pessimist,  full 
of  ardour.  He  revelled,  intellectually,  in  the  sor- 
rows and  in  the  evils  that  afflict  the  world. 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  153 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  a  great  influence 
over  Mark.  And  it  was  easy  to  see  also  that  the 
dismal  genius  of  ''  William  Foster  "  appealed  to 
all  the  peculiarities  of  his  nature  with  intense 
force.  He  was  at  once  on  friendly  terms  with 
Catherine,  to  whom  he  spoke  openly  of  his  admi- 
ration of  her  husband. 

"  Mrs.  Sirrett,"  he  said  one  evening,  when 
Mark  was  working — he  had  taken  to  working  at 
night  now  as  well  as  in  the  morning — "  your  hus- 
band will  do  great  things.  He  will  found  a 
school.  The  young  men  will  be  captivated  by 
his  sombre  genius,  and  we  shall  have  less  of  the 
thoughtless  rubbish  that  the  journalist  loves  and 
calls  sane,  healthy,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"  But  surely  sanity  and  health " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Sirrett,  we  want  originality  and 
imagination." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  But  can't  they  be  sane  and 
healthy  ?  " 

Was  Gautier  healthy  when  he  wrote  of  the 
Priest  and  of  the  Vampire?  This  book  Mark  is 
writing  will  be  awful  in  its  intensity.  It  will 
make  the  world  turn  cold.  It  is  terrible.  Peo- 
ple will  shudder  at  it." 

He  walked  about  the  room  enthusiastically. 

"And  its  terror  is  the  true  terror — mental. 
How  the  papers  will  hate  it,  and  how  every  one 
will  read  it  !  " 

"  May  it — may  it  not  do  a  great  deal  of  harm  ?  " 
said  Catherine,  slowly. 


1 54  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"What  if  it  does?  Nothing  can  prevent  it 
from  being  a  great  book." 

And  he  broke  out  into  a  dissertation  on  art 
that  would  have  delighted  Mr.  Ardagh. 

Catherine  listened  to  him  in  silence,  but  when 
he  had  finished  she  said, 

"  But  you  are  one-sided,  Mr.  Berrand." 

"I!"  he  cried.     "How  so?" 

"  You  see  only  the  horrible  in  life,  even  in  love. 
You  care  only  for  the  horrible  in  art." 

"  The  truth  is  more  often  horrible  than  not," 
he  answered.  "  We  dress  it  in  pink  paper  as  we 
dress  a  burning  lamp.  We  fear  its  light  will 
hurt  our  weak  eyes.  Almost  all  the  pretty  theo- 
ries of  future  states,  happy  hunting  grounds,  and 
so  forth,  almost  all  the  fallacies  of  life  to  which 
we  are  inclined  to  cling,  are  only  pink  paper 
shades  which  we  make  to  save  ourselves  from 
blinking  at  the  light." 

"  You  call  it  light  ?  "  she  said. 

And  she  felt  a  profound  pity  for  him.  There 
was  no  need  of  that.  Berrand  was  one  of  those 
strange  men  who  are  happy  in  the  contemplation 
of  misery. 

While  Berrand  was  staying  with  the  Sirretts, 
Mrs.  Ardagh  came  to  them  on  a  visit.  She  was 
now  in  very  poor  health,  and  her  mind  was 
greatly  set,  in  consequence,  on  that  other  world 
of  which  the  healthy  scarcely  think,  unless  they 
wake  at  night  or  lose  a  near  relation  unexpect- 
edly.    Mr.    Berrand    immediately    horrified    her. 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  1 55 

Of  course  he  did  not  speak  of  "  William  Foster." 
"  William  Foster's"  existence  in  the  house  was  a 
secret.  But  he  freely  aired  his  sentiments  on  all 
other  subjects,  and  each  sentiment  went  like  a 
sword  through  Mrs.  Ardagh's  soul. 

"  How  can  Mark  make  a  friend  of  such  a  man," 
she  said  to  Catherine.  "  Like  your  father,  he 
has  no  religious  belief.  He  worships  art  instead 
of  God.  He  loves,  he  positively  loves,  the  evil 
of  the  world.  Such  men  are  a  curse.  They  go 
to  people  hell." 

Her  feverish  eyes  glowed  with  fanaticism. 

"Oh,  mother!"  said  Catherine,  thinking  of 
"William  Foster." 

"  They  do  not  care  to  do  good,  they  do  not 
fear  to  do  harm,"  continued  Mrs.  Ardagh. 
"  Why  are  they  not  cut  off?  " 

She  made  her  daughter  kneel  down  with  her 
and  pray  against  such  men. 

Then  they  went  down  to  dinner,  and  dined 
with  "  William  Foster." 

Catherine  felt  like  one  in  a  fever.  She  knew 
that  her  mother  had  an  exaggerated  mind.  Nev- 
ertheless, she  was  deeply  moved  by  it,  recognis- 
ing that  it  exaggerated  truth,  not  a  lie. 

At  dinner  Mrs.  Ardagh,  by  some  ill-chance, 
was  led  to  mention  "  William  Foster's  "  book. 
Mark  raised  gay  eyebrf)ws  at  Berrand  and  Cath- 
erine grew  hot.  For  Mrs.  Ardagh  denounced  the 
a\ithor  as  she  had  denounced  him  in  London,  but 
with  more  excitement. 


156  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  I  trust,"  she  said,  "  that  he  will  never  live  to 
write  another." 

Catherine  felt  as  if  a  knife  were  thrust  into  her 
breast,  and  even  Mark  started  slightly  and  looked 
almost  uneasy,  as  if  he  fancied  that  the  force  of 
Mrs.  Ardagh's  desire  might  accomplish  its  fulfil- 
ment. Only  Berrand  was  undismayed.  There 
was  a  devil  of  mischief  in  him.  His  eyes  of 
a  toad  gleamed  as  he  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Ar- 
magh, 

"  I  happen  to  know  that  '  William  Foster '  is 
writing  another  book  at  this  very  time." 

Catherine  bent  her  eyes  on  her  plate.  She  was 
tingling  with  nervous  excitement. 

"  Do  you  know  him,  then  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ardagh, 
in  her  fervid,  and  yet  dreary,  voice. 

"Slightly." 

"  Then  tell  him  of  the  dreadful  harm  he  has 
done." 

"  What  harm  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ardagh  spoke  of  Jenny  Levita.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  now  fallen  into  an  evil  way  of  life. 

"  But  why  should  you  attribute  the  folly  of  a 
weak  girl  to  William  Foster's  influence?"  said 
Berrand. 

"  Her  soul  was  trembling  in  the  balance,"  said 
Mrs.  Ardagh,  striking  her  thin  hand  excitedly  on 
the  table.  "That  book  turned  the  scale.  She 
went  down.  Tell  him  of  her,  Mr.  Berrand,  tell 
him  of  the  ruin  of  that  poor  child.  It  may  in- 
fluence him." 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  157 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Berrand,  with  a  glance 
at  Mark.     "  William  Foster  is  an  artist." 

"  It  is  terrible  that  he  should  be  permitted  to 
work  such  evil,"  said  Mrs.  Ardagh. 

During  that  summer  a  vague  and  hollow  dark- 
ness seemed  to  brood  round  the  life  of  Cather- 
ine. It  stood  behind  the  glory  of  the  golden 
days.  She  felt  night  even  at  noontide,  and  a 
damp  mist  floated  mysteriously  to  her  out  of 
the  very  heart  of  the  sun.  Yet  she  had  some 
happy,  or  at  least  some  feverishly  excited,  mo- 
ments, for  Berrand  was  generally  staying  with 
them,  and  Catherine — abnormally  sensitive  as  she 
always  was  to  her  undoing, — came  under  his 
curious  influence  and  caught  some  of  his  enthu- 
siasm for  the  talent  of  "  William  Foster." 

Once  again  Mark  began  to  speak  to  her  of  his 
work,  to  read  parts  of  it  aloud  to  both  his  com- 
panions. And  there  were  evenings  when  Cath- 
erine, carried  away  by  the  intellectual  joy  of  the 
two  men,  exulted  with  them  in  the  horrible  fas- 
cination of  the  book  and  in  the  intensity  of  its 
dramatic  force.  But,  when  these  moments  were 
over,  and  she  was  gone,  she  brooded  darkly  over 
her  mother's  words.  For  she  knew  that  the 
book  was  evil.  Like  a  snake  it  carried  poison 
with  it,  and,  presently,  it  was  going  to  carry  that 
poison  out  from  this  house  in  the  woods,  out 
into  the  world.  Ah  !  the  poor  world,  on  which 
a  thousand  things  preyed,  in  which  a  thousand 
snakes  set  their  poisoned  fangs  ! 


158  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

And  then  she  wept.  Mark  and  Berrand  were 
eagerly  talking  of  the  snake,  praising  its  lustrous 
skin,  marvelling  at  its  jewelled  eyes,  foretelling 
its  lithe  progress  through  Society.  She  heard  the 
murmur  of  their  voices  until  far  into  the  night. 
And  sometimes  she  thought  that  distant  murmur 
sounded  like  the  hum  of  evil,  or  like  the  furtive 
whisper  of  conspirators. 

Berrand  did  not  leave  them  until  the  new  book 
was  nearly  finished.  As  he  pressed  Catherine's 
hand  in  farewell  he  said, 

"  You  will  have  a  sensational  autumn,  Mrs. 
Sirrett." 

"  Sensational.     Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  London  will  ring  with  William  Foster's  name. 
My  word  how  the  Journalists  will  curse  !  They 
protect  the  morality  of  the  nation  you  know — 
on  paper." 

He  was  gone.  As  the  carriage  drove  away 
Catherine  saw  his  beautiful,  and  yet  rather  dread- 
ful, eyes  gleaming  with  mischievous  excitement. 
Suddenly  she  felt  heavy-hearted.  Those  last 
words  of  his  cleared  away  any  mist  of  doubt  that 
lingered  about  her  own  terror.  She  recognised 
fully  for  the  first  time  the  essential  difference 
between  Mark  and  Berrand.  Mark  was  really 
possessed  by  the  spirit  of  the  artist,  was  driven 
by  something  strange  and  dominating  within  him 
to  do  what  he  did.  Berrand  was  possessed  by  a 
spirit  of  mischievous  devilry,  by  the  poor  and 
degrading  desire  to  shock  and   startle  the  world 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  159 

at  whatever  cost.  For  the  moment  Catherine 
mentally  saw  Mark  in  a  light  of  nobility  ;  Berrand 
in  a  darkness  of  degradation. 

Yet — this  thought  followed  in  a  moment, — 
Berrand  was  harmless  to  the  world,  while  Mark — 

"  Kitty,  come  in  here,"  called  her  husband's 
voice  from  the  study.  "  I  Avant  to  consult  you 
about  this  last  chapter." 

In  the  Autumn  "  William  Foster's  "  new  book 
was  issued  by  an  "  advanced  "  publisher,  who  loved 
to  hear  his  wares  called  dangerous,  and  who 
walked  on  air  when  the  reviewers  said  that  such 
men  as  he  were  a  curse  to  Society — as  they  oc- 
casionally did  when  there  was  nothing  special  to 
write  about. 

In  the  autumn  also  Mrs.  Ardagh's  illness  grew 
worse  and  it  appeared  that  she  could  not  live 
much  longer.  Catherine  was  terribly  grieved,  and 
was  for  a  time  so  much  engaged  with  her  mother 
that  she  scarcely  heeded  what  was  going  on  in 
the  world  around.  Incessantly  immured  in  the 
sick-room  she  did  not  trace  the  progress  of  the 
snake  through  Society  until — as  Berrand  had 
foretold — the  cries  of  the  Journalists  rose  to 
Heaven  like  cries  from  a  burning  city.  "Wil- 
liam I'oster  "  was  held  up  to  execration  so  uni- 
versal that  his  book  could  hardly  be  printed  in 
sufficient  quantities  to  satisfy  th<:  (Kmands  of  a 
public  frantically  eager  to  be  harmed.  T11  ]u;r 
sick-room  Mrs.  Ardagh,  now  not  far  from  death, 
yet  still  religiously  interested  in  the  well-being  of 


lOO  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

the  world  she  was  leaving,  heard  the  echoes  of 
the  journalistic  cries.  Some  friend,  perhaps,  con- 
veyed them.  For  Catherine  was  silent  on  the 
matter,  keeping  a  silence  of  fear  and  of  shame. 
And  these  echoes  stayed  with  the  dying  woman, 
as  stay  the  voices  in  the  hills. 

One  night,  when  Catherine  came  into  her 
mother's  room,  Mrs.  Ardagh  was  crying  feebly. 
On  the  sheet  of  the  bed  lay  a  letter  which  she 
had  crumpled  in  her  pale  hands  and  then  tried, 
vainly,  to  fling  away  from  her.  Catherine  leaned 
over  the  bed. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  she  said.  "You  are 
not  in  pain  ?" 

Mrs.  Ardagh  shifted  in  the  bed.  There  was  a 
suggestion  of  almost  intolerable  uneasiness  in  the 
movement. 

"  I  am  in  pain,  horrible  pain,"  she  answered. 
"  No — no,"  as  Catherine  was  about  to  ring  for 
the  nurse,  "  not  in  the  body — not  that." 

Catherine  sat  down  by  the  bed  and  clasped  her 
mother's  hot  hand. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  whispered. 

Mrs.  Ardagh  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She 
blinked  her  heavy  eyelids  to  stop  the  tears  from 
falling  on  her  wasted  cheeks.  At  length  she 
said, 

"William  Foster  has  done  more  evil." 

Catherine  did  not  speak.  Her  heart  beat  ir- 
regularly, and  then  seemed  to  stop,  and  then  beat 
with  unnatural  force  again. 


WILLIAM    FOSTER.  l6l 

"Catherine,"  her  mother  continued,  "  Jenny  is 
utterly  lost." 

"  No,  mother,  no  !  "  Catherine  said.  "  I  will  go 
to  her.  Let  me  go.  I  will  rescue  her.  I  will 
make  her  see " 

"  Hush — you  can't.  She  is  dead  and  she  died 
in  shame." 

She  paused.     Catherine  did  not  speak. 

"  And  now,"  Mrs.  Ardagh  continued  feebly, 
"that  man  is  spreading  the  net  for  others.  Do 
you  know,  Catherine,  I  often  pray  for  him  ?" 

"  Do  you,  mother  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  has  great  powers.  I  never  let  your 
father  know  it,  but  that  first  book  of  his  made  an 
impression  upon  me  that  has  never  faded.  That's 
why  I  think  of  him  even  now — that  and  the  fate 
of  poor  Jenny." 

She  lifted  herself  up  a  little  in  the  bed. 

"  His  last  book,  I  am  told,  is  much  more  ter- 
rible,  much  more  deadly  than  the  first." 

"Is  it?" 

"You  haven't  read  it?" 

Catherine  hesitated  a  moment,  then  she  said, 

"  I  know  something  about  it." 

Mrs.  Ardagh  lay  still  for  a  while,  as  if  thinking. 
Presently  she  said, 

"  Catherine,  such  an  odd,  foolish  idea  keeps 
coming  to  mc." 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  That  T  should  like  to  see  '  William  Foster  ' 
and — and  try  to  make  him  understand  what  he  is 


1 62  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

doing.  Perhaps  lie  doesn't  know,  doesn't  realise. 
God  often  lets  the  devil  blind  us,  you  know.  If 
I  told  him  about  Jenny,  told  him  all  about  her,  he 
might  see — he  might  understand.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  " 

Catherine  was  holding  her  mother's  hand.  She 
pressed  it  vehemently. 

"  Oh,  mother,  perhaps  he  might  !  " 

Mrs.  Ardagh  sat  up  still  more  among  her  pillows. 

"  You  don't  think  it's  a  silly  fancy?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wonder." 

Catherine  was  crying  quietly. 

"  It  keeps  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Ardagh,  "  as  if 
God  sent  it  to  me.  What  can  I  do  ?  How  can 
I  send  to  William  Foster  ?  I  don't  know  where 
he  is.     Could  that  Mr.  Berrand ?" 

"  Mother,"  Catherine  said.  "  Leave  it  to  me, 
I  will  bring  William  Foster  to  you." 

She  was  trembling.  But  the  invalid,  exhausted 
with  the  excitement  of  the  conversation,  was 
growing  drowsy.  She  sank  down  again  in  her 
pillows. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured.  "  I — might — tell — him 
— William  Foster." 

She  slept  heavily. 

"  Mark,"  Catherine  said  to  her  husband  the 
next  day.  "  Mother  is  dying.  She  can  only  live 
a  very  few  days." 

"  Oh,  Kitty  !     How  grieved  I  am  !  " 

His  face  was  full  of  the  most  tender  sympathy. 
He  took  her  hand  gently  and  kissed  her. 


<<     TTTTT     T     »    •    .,  »-.^^^^^     tt 


WILLIAM    FOSTER."  163 

"  My  Kitty,  how  will  you  bear  this  great  sor- 

?M 

"  Mark,"  Catherine  said,  and  her  voice  sounded 
curiously  strained.  "  Mother  wants  very  much 
to  see  you,  before  she  dies.  She  has  something 
to  say  to  you.  I  think  she  cares  more  about 
seeing  you  than  about  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

Mark  looked  surprised. 

"  I  will  go  to  her  at  once,"  he  said.  "  What 
can  it  be  ?    Ah,  it  must  be  something  about  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  What  then?" 

"  She  will  tell  you,  Mark.  It  is  better  she 
should  tell  you  herself." 

"  I  will  go  to  her  then.     I  will  go  now." 

"  Wait  a  moment  " — Catherine  was  very  pale 
• — "  Promise  me,  Mark,  that  you  won't — you 
won't  be  angry  if — if  mother — you  will " 

She  stopped.  Ilcr  emotion  was  painful. 
Mark  was  more  and  more  puzzled. 

"  Angry  with  your  mother  ?  At  such  a  time  !  " 
he  said. 

"  No — you  wouldn't.  I  am  upset.  I  am  fool- 
ish. Let  mc  go  first  to  tell  her  you  arc  coming. 
Follow  me  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  went  out  leaving  her  husband  amazed. 
When  she  arrived  in  Eaton  Square  Mr.  Ardagh 
met  her  in  the  hall. 

"  She  is  worse,"  he  said.  "  Much  worse.  The 
end  cannot  be  far  off." 


164  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  The  beginning,"  Catherine  said,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

He  understood  then  which  parental  spirit  had 
conquered  the  spirit  of  the  child,  and  he  smiled 
— sadly  or  gladly  ?  He  hardly  knew.  So  strangely 
does  death  play  with  us  all.  Catherine  went 
upstairs  into  her  mother's  room,  which  was  dim 
and  very  hot.  She  shut  the  door,  sent  away  the 
nurse,  and  went  up  to  the  bedside. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  William  Foster  is  com- 
ing.    Do  you  feel  that  you  can  see  him  ? ' 

Mrs.  Ardagh  was  perfectly  conscious,  although 
so  near  death. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  God  means  me  to  give  him 
a  message — God  means  me." 

She  lay  silent  ;  Catherine  sat  by  her.  Presently 
she  spoke  again. 

"  I  shall  convince  him,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  That  is  meant.  If  I  did  not  God  would  strike 
him  down.  He  would  be  cut  off.  But  I  shall 
make  him  know  himself." 

And  then  she  repeated,  with  a  sort  of  feeble 
but  intense  conviction, 

"  If  I  did  not  God  would  strike  him  down — yes 
—yes." 

Something — perhaps  the  fact  that  her  mother 
was  so  near  death,  so  close  to  that  great  secret, 
— made  her  words,  faltering  though  they  were,  go 
home  to  Catherine  with  the  most  extraordinary 
poignancy,  as  words  had  never  gone  before.  She 
felt  that  it  was  true,  that  there  was  no  alternative. 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  165 

Either  Mark  must  be  convinced  now,  by  this 
bedside,  in  this  hot,  dark  room  from  which  a  soul 
was  passing,  or  he  would,  by  some  accident,  by 
some  sudden  means,  be  swept  away  from  the 
world  that  he  was  injuring,  that  he  was  poisoning. 

Mrs.  Ardagh  seemed  to  grow  more  feeble  with 
every  moment  that  passed.  And  suddenly  a 
great  fear  overtook  Catherine,  the  dread  that 
Mark  would  come  too  late,  and  then — God's  other 
means !  She  trembled,  and  strained  her  ears  to 
catch  the  sound  of  wheels.  Mrs.  Ardagh  now 
seemed  to  be  sinking  into  sleep — Catherine  strove 
to  rouse  her.  She  stirred  and  said,  "  What  is 
it  ?"  in  a  voice  that  sounded  peevish. 

Just  then  there  was  a  gentle  tap  on  the  door. 
Catherine  sprang  up,  and  hastened  to  it  with  a 
fast  beating  heart.      Mr.  Ardagh  stood  there. 

"  I  low  is  she  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  I  think  she  is  not  in  jiain.  She  is  just  rest- 
ing.    Has  Mark  come  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Please  send  him  up  directly  he  comes." 

She  spoke  with  a  hushed,  but  with  an  intense, 
excitement. 

"  I  want  him  to — 1<^  say  good-bye  to  her,"  she 
added. 

Mr.  Ardagh  nodded,  and  went  softly  down- 
stairs. 

"Is  that  he— is  that  William  Foster?"  said 
Mrs,  y\rdagh  feebly  from  the  bed. 

"  No,  mother.      liuL  he  will  be  here  directly." 


l66  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  I'm  very  tired,"  said  the  sick  woman  in  reply. 
And  again  her  thin  voice  sounded  irritable. 

Catherine  sat  down  by  her  and  held  her  hand 
tightly,  as  if  that  grasp  could  keep  her  in  this 
life.  A  few  minutes  passed.  Then  there  was 
the  sound  of  a  cab  in  the  Square.  It  ceased  in 
front  of  the  house.  Catherine  could  scarcely 
breathe.     She  bent  down  to  the  dying  woman. 

"  Mother !  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Mother,  he  has  come — but  I  want  to  tell  you 
something — arc  you  listening  ?  " 

"  Move  the  pillow." 

Catherine  did  so. 

"  Mother,  I  want  to  tell  you.     William  Foster 

•  »» 

IS 

The  bedroom  door  opened  and  Mark  entered 
softly.  Catherine  stood  up,  still  holding  her 
mother's  hand,  which  was  now  very  cold.  Mark 
came  to  the  bed  on  tiptoe. 

"  Mother,"  Catherine  said,  "  William  Fos- 
ter"—  Mark  started  —"is  here.  Tell  him— tell 
him." 

There  was  no  reply  from  the  bed. 

"  Kitty,"  Mark  whispered,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said.  "  Mother— mother,  don't 
you  hear  me?  " 

Again  there  was  no  reply.  Then  Catherine 
bent  down  and  cast  a  hard,  staring  glance  of  in- 
quiry  on  her  mother. 

Mrs.Ardagh  was  dead. 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  167 

Catherine  looked  up  at  Mark. 

"  God's  other  means,"  she  thought. 


The  death  of  her  mother  left  a  strong  and  ter- 
rible impression  upon  Catherine.  She  brooded 
over  it  continually  and  over  Mrs.  Ardagh's  last 
words.  The  last  words  of  the  dying  often  dwell 
in  the  memories  of  the  living.  Faltering,  feeble, 
sometimes  apparently  inconsequent,  they  appear 
nevertheless  prophetic,  touched  with  the  dignity 
of  Eternal  truths.  Lives  have  been  moulded  by 
such  last  words.  Natures  have  been  diverted  into 
new  and  curious  paths.  So  it  was  now.  For  the 
future  Mr.  Ardagh's  influence  had  no  force  over 
his  daughter.  An  influence  from  the  grave  dom- 
inated her.  Mr.  Ardagh  recognised  the  fact, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  travelled.  His  phi- 
losophy taught  him  to  accept  the  inevitable  with 
the  fortitude  of  the  Stoic.  From  henceforward  the 
Sirretts  saw  little  of  him.  As  to  Mark,  with  his 
habitual  tenderness  he  set  about  consoling  his 
wife  for  her  loss.  lie  was  kindness  itself.  Cath- 
erine seemed  grateful,  was  indeed  grateful  to  him. 
Nevertheless,  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Ardagh, 
something  seemed  to  stand  between  her  and  her 
husband,  dividing  them.  Mark  did  not  know  what 
this  was.  For  some  time  he  was  unconscious  of 
this  thin  veil  dropped  between  them.  Even  when 
he  became  aware  of  it  he  could  not  tell  why  it 
was  there.     I  le  strove  to  put  it  aside,  but  in  vain. 


l68  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Then  he  strove  not  to  see  it,  not  to  think  of  it. 
He  forgot  it  in  his  work.  But  Catherine  always 
knew  what  set  her  apart  from  her  husband.  It 
was  that  influence  from  the  grave.  It  was  the 
memory  of  her  mother's  last  words.  She  recog- 
nised them  from  the  first,  blindly,  as  words  of 
prophecy.  Yet  the  days  went  by.  "  William 
Foster  "  sat  in  his  study  in  the  Surrey  home  once 
more,  while  the  spring  grew,  imitative  of  last 
year's  spring.  And  there  was  no  sign  from  God. 
Catherine  never  doubted  that  the  dying  woman 
had  been  inspired.  She  never  doubted  that  "  Will- 
iam Foster"  would  be  stayed,  however  tragically, 
from  working  fresh  evil  in  the  world.  Indeed  she 
waited,  as  one  assured  of  some  particular  future, 
breathless  in  expectation  of  its  approach.  Some- 
times she  strove  to  picture  precisely  what  it  might 
be,  and,  fancifully,  she  set  two  men  before  her — 
Mark  and  "  William  Foster."  Even  in  real  life 
they  seemed  two  different  men.  Why  not  in  the 
life  of  the  imagination?  And  that  was  sweeter, 
for  then  she  could  look  forward  to  the  one  stand- 
ing fast,  to  the  other  being  stricken.  Might  not 
his  genius  die  in  a  man  while  the  man  lived  on  ? 
There  had  been  instances  of  men  who  had  writ- 
ten one  or  two  brilliant  books  and  had  seemed  to 
exhaust  themselves  in  that  effort.  And  she 
dreamed  of  her  husband's  gift  being  stolen  from 
him  —  divinely — of  the  stranger  being  slain.  Yet 
this  dreaming  was  idle  and  fantastic,  the  image 
which  greets  closed    eyes.     For    Mark's    energy 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER.  169 

and  enthusiasm  were  growing.  The  fury  of  the 
papers  fed  him.  The  cries  of  pious  fear  embold- 
ened his  dogged  and  dreary  talent.  His  genius 
grew  darker  as  its  darkness  became  recognised. 

This  third  book  of  his  promised  to  be  more 
powerful,  more  deadly,  than  either  of  its  fore- 
runners. He  did  not  speak  much  of  it  to  Cathe- 
rine. But  now  and  then,  carried  away  by  excite- 
meat  and  by  the  need  of  sympathy,  he  dropped 
a  hint  of  what  he  was  doing.  She  listened  atten- 
tively but  said  little.  Mark  noticed  her  lack  of 
responsiveness,  and  one  night  he  said  rather 
bitterly, 

"You  no  longer  care  for  your  husband's 
achievements,  Catherine." 

He  did  not  call  her  Kitty. 

"  I  fear  them,  Mark,''  Catherine  replied. 

"  Fear  them  !     Why  ?  " 

"  They  are  doing  great  harm  in  the  world." 

Mark  uttered  an  impatient  exclamation.  As  a 
man  he  was  kind  and  gentle,  but  as  an  artist  he 
was  wilful  and  intolerant.  Soon  after  this  he 
wrote  to  Berrand  and  invited  him  to  stay.  Ber- 
rand  came.  This  time  Catherine  shuddered  at 
his  coming.  She  began  to  look  upon  him  as  her 
husband's  evil  genius.  Berrand  did  not  appar- 
ently notice  any  change  in  her,  for  he  treated 
her  as  usual,  and  spoke  much  to  her  of  Mark. 
And  Catherine  was  too  reserved  to  express  the 
feelings  which  tortured  her  to  a  comparative 
stranger.      I'or  this  reason    licrrand    did  not  un- 


I70  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

dcrstand  the  terrible  conflict  that  was  raging 
within  her  as  "  William  Foster's "  new  work 
grew,  and  he  often  spoke  to  her  about  the  book, 
and  described,  with  mischievous  intellectual  de- 
light, its  terror,  its  immorality  and  its  pain. 
Catherine  listened  with  apparent  calm.  She  was 
waiting  for  that  interruption  from  heaven.  She 
was  wondering  why  it  did  not  come. 

One  night  in  summer  it  chanced  that  she  and 
Berrand  spoke  of  Fate.  Catherine,  dominated 
by  her  fixed  idea  that  God  would  intervene  in 
some  strange  and  abrupt  way  to  interrupt  the 
activities  of  Mark,  spoke  of  Fate  as  something  in- 
evitably ordained,  certain  as  the  rising  of  the  sun 
or  the  dropping  down  of  the  darkness.  Berrand 
laughed. 

"  There  is  no  Fate,"  he  said.  "  There  is  man, 
there  is  woman.  Man  and  woman  make  circum- 
stance. We  fashion  our  own  lives  and  the  lives 
of  others." 

"  And  our  deaths  ?  "  said  Catherine. 

"  We  die  when  we've  done  enough,  when  we've 
done  our  best  or  worst,  when  we've  pushed  our 
energy  as  far  as  it  will  go — that  is,  if  we  die  what 
is  called  a  natural  death.  But  of  course  now  and 
then  some  other  human  being  chooses  to  think 
for  us,  and  to  think  we  have  lived  long  enough 
or  too  long.     And  then " 

He  paused  with  a  smile. 

"  Then ?  "  said  Catherine,  leaning  slightly 

forward. 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  171 

**  Then  that  human  being  may  cut  our  thread 
prematurely,  and  down  we  go  to  death." 

Catherine  drew  in  her  breath  sharply. 

"  But  that  again,"  continued  Berrand.  "  Is 
man — or  woman — not  the  fantasy  you  call 
Fate?" 

"  Perhaps  Fate  can  take  possession  of  a  man  or 
a  woman,"  Catherine  said  slowly  and  thought- 
fully, "  govern  them,  act  through  them." 

"  That's  a  dangerous  doctrine.  You  believe 
that  criminals  are  irresponsible  then?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  there 
must  be  an  agent.     Yes,  I  suppose  there  must." 

She  spoke  as  one  who  is  thinking  out  a 
problem. 

*'  God,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment  of  si- 
lence, "  may  choose  to  use  a  man  or  woman  as  an 
agent  instead  of  a  disease." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Berrand,  with  his  odd,  high 
laugh,  "  I  cannot  go  with  you  on  that  road  of 
thought,  Mrs.  Sirrctt.  I  am  not  afflicted  with  a 
religion.  Oh,  here's  Mark.  IIow  have  you  been 
getting  on,  Mr.  William  Foster?" 

"Grandly,"  he  replied. 

His  dark  eyes  were  blazing  with  excitement. 
Catherine  suddenly  turned  very  cold.  She  got 
up  and  left  the  room.  The  two  men  scarcely 
noticed  her  departure.  They  plunged  into  an 
eager  discussion  on  the  book.  They  debated  it 
till  the  night  waned  and  the  melancholy  breath 
of  dawn  stole  in  at  the  open  window. 


172  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Meanwhile,  Catherine,  who  had  gone  to  bed, 
lay  awake.  This  summer  was  so  like  last  sum- 
mer. Now,  as  then,  she  was  sleepless,  and  heard 
the  distant,  excited  voices  rising  and  falling, 
murmuring  on  and  on  hour  after  hour.  Now,  as 
then,  they  accompanied  activity.  Now,  as  then, 
the  activity  was  deadly,  harmful  to  an  invisible 
multitude,  hidden  out  in  the  great  world.  But 
there  was  a  difference  between  last  year  and  this, 
so  like  in  many  ways.  Mark's  power  had  grown 
in  the  interval.  He  had  become  more  danger- 
ous. And  Catherine  had  developed  also.  Cir- 
cumstance— spoken  of  by  Berrand — had  changed, 
twisted  into  a  different  shape  by  dying  hands, 
twisted  again  by  the  hands — all  unconscious — of 
that  man  who  talked  down  stairs,  of  Berrand. 
Was  he,  too,  an  agent  of  Fate,  at  which  he  scorn- 
fully laughed  ?     Why  not  ? 

Oh,  those  everlasting  voices  !  they  rang  hate- 
fully in  the  sleepless  woman's  ears.  Their  eager- 
ness, their  enthusiasm,  were  terrible  to  her.  For 
now  their  joy  seemed  to  summon  her  to  a  great 
darkness.  Their  sound  seemed  to  call  her  to  the 
making  of  a  great  silence.  She  put  her  hands 
over  her  ears,  but  she  still  heard  them  till  it  was 
dawn.  She  still  heard  them  when  they  were  no 
more  speaking. 

From  this  time  Catherine  waited  indeed,  but 
with  a  patience  quite  different  from  that  which 
possessed  her  formerly.  Then  she  was  expectant, 
almost  superstitiously  expectant,  of  an  abrupt  in- 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER.  1 73 

terposition  of  Fate.  Now  she  waited,  but  with 
less  expectancy,  and  with  a  strange  and  growing 
sense  of  personal  obhgation  which  had  been 
totally  absent  from  her  before  the  issue  lay  be- 
tween the  thing  invisible  and  herself.  And  each 
day  that  passed  brought  the  issue  a  step  nearer 
to  her.  How  pathetical  seemed  to  her  the  ig- 
norance of  the  two  men  who  were  her  compan- 
ions in  the  cloistered  house  at  this  time.  Tears 
rose  in  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  her  secret  and 
their  impotence  to  know  it.  But  then  she  thought 
of  her  mother's  death-bed  and  the  tears  ran  dry. 
For  the  spirit  of  her  mother  surely  was  with  her 
in  the  dark,  the  spirit  that  knew  all  now  and  that 
could  inspire  and  direct  her. 

The  book  grew  and  Catherine  waited.  Would 
Mark  be  allowed  to  complete  it  ?  that  was  the 
great  question.  If  he  was,  then  the  burden  of 
action  was  laid  upon  her  by  the  will  of  God.  She 
had  quite  made  up  her  mind  on  that.  She  had 
even  prayed,  and  believed  that  an  answer  had 
been  given  to  her  prayer,  and  that  the  answer 
was — "  In  the  event  you  anticipate  it  is  God's  will 
that  you  should  act."  She  was  fully  resolved  to 
do  God's  will.  And  so  she  waited,  with  a  strong, 
but  how  anxious,  patience.  The  growth  of  the 
book  was  now  become  ironical  to  her  as  the 
growth  of  a  plant  which  must  die  when  it  attains 
a  certain  height  ;  the  labour  spent  upon  it,  the 
discussion  that  raged  around  it,  the  decisions 
that   were  arrived  at  as  to  its  course — all  these 


174  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

things  were  now  most  pitifully  pathetic  to  Cath- 
erine. As  she  watched  Mark  and  Berrand,  as  she 
listened  to  them,  she  seemed  to  watch  and  h'sten 
to  children,  playing  idly,  chattering  idly,  on  the 
edge  of  events  that  must  stop  their  play,  their 
chatter — perhaps  for  ever. 

For  this  book  would  never  sec  the  light.  No 
one  would  ever  read  it.  No  one  would  ever  speak 
of  it  but  these  two  men,  whose  lives  seemed 
bound  up  in  it.     And  Catherine  alone  knew  this. 

Sometimes  she  had  a  longing  to  tell  them  of 
this  knowledge,  to  say  to  Mark,  "  Do  not  waste 
yourself  in  this  useless  energy  !  "  to  say  to  Ber- 
rand, "  Do  not  rejoice  over  the  future  of  that 
which  has  no  future."  But  she  refrained,  know- 
ing that  to  speak  would  be  to  give  the  lie  to  what 
she  spoke.  For  such  revelation  must  frustrate 
her  contemplated  action.  So  nobody  knew  what 
she  knew,  except  the  spirit  that  stood  by  her  in 
the  night.  She  waited,  and  the  book  drew  slowly 
towards  its  climax  and  its  close.  As  Berrand 
grew  more  excited  about  it  he  spoke  more  of  it 
to  Catherine.  But  Mark — conscious  of  that  veil 
dropped  between  him  and  his  wife — scarcely 
mentioned  it  to  her,  and  declined  to  read  any 
passages  from  it  aloud.  Catherine  understood 
that  he  distrusted  her  and  knew  her  utterly  unsym- 
pathetic and  adverse  to  his  labours.  The  sign 
for  which  she  had  hoped,  which  she  had  once 
most  confidently  expected,  did  not  come.  And 
at  length  she  almost  ceased  to  think  of  it,  and  was 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  175 

inclined  to  put  the  idea   from  her  as  a   fooHsh 
dream. 

The  burden  of  action  was,  it  seemed,  to  be  laid 
upon  her.  She  would  accept  it  calmly,  dutifully. 
So  the  summer  waned,  drawing  towards  autumn. 
The  atmosphere  grew  heavy  and  mellow.  The 
garden  was  languid  with  its  weight  of  bearing 
plants  and  with  its  fruits.  Mists  rose  at  evening 
in  the  woods,  clouding  the  trunks  of  the  trees, 
and  spreading  melancholy  as  a  sad  tale  that  floats, 
like  a  mist,  over  those  who  hear  it.  And,  one 
day,  the  book  was  finished. 

Berrand  came  to  tell  Catherine.  He  was  radi- 
ant. While  he  spoke  he  never  noticed  that  she 
closed  her  hands  tightly  as  one  who  prepares  to 
face  an  enemy. 

"  Wc  are  going  to  London  this  afternoon,"  he 
added.     "  Mark  must  sec  his  publisher." 

"  He  is  taking  up  the  manuscript?"  said 
Catherine  hastily. 

"  No,  no.  There  arc  one  or  two  finishing 
touches  to  be  put.  But  he  must  arrange  about 
the  date  of  publishing.  He  will  return  by  the 
midnight  train,  but  I  shall  stay  in  town  for  the 
night." 

Mark  locked  up  the  manuscript  in  a  drawer  of 
his  writing  table,  the  key  of  which  he  carried 
about  him  on  a  chain.  And  the  two  men  took 
their  departure,  leaving  Catherine  alone. 

So  the  time  of  her  duty  was  fully  come.  She 
had  waited  till  now,  because,  till  now,  she  had  not 


176  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

been  absolutely  sure  that  she  was  to  be  the  agent 
through  whom  Fate  was  to  work.  But  she  could 
no  longer  dare  to  doubt.  The  book  was  finished. 
Mark  had  been  allowed  to  finish  it.  But  its 
deadly  work  was  not  accomplished  till  it  was 
given  to  the  world.  It  must  never  be  given  to 
the  world. 

The  day  was  not  cold.  Yet  Catherine  ordered 
the  footman  to  light  a  fire  in  Mark's  study. 
When  he  had  done  so  she  told  liim  not  to  allow 
her  to  be  disturbed.  Then  she  v/ent  into  the 
room  and  shut  the  door  behind  her.  She  walked 
up  to  the  writing  table,  at  which  Mark  had  spent 
so  many  hours,  labouring,  thinking,  imagining, 
working  out,  fashioning  that  shell  which  was  to 
burst  and  maim  a  world.  The  silence  in  the 
room  seemed  curiously  intense.  The  fire  gleamed, 
and  the  sun  gleamed  too  ;  though  already  it  was 
slanting  to  the  West.  Catherine  stood  for  some 
time  by  the  table.  Then  she  tried  the  drawer 
in  which  Mark  kept  his  manuscript  and  found 
it  locked.  The  resistance  of  the  drawer  to  her 
hand  roused  her. 

Two  or  three  minutes  later  one  of  the  maids  in 
the  servant's  hall  said, 

"  Whatever's  that  ?  " 

"  What .'' "  said  the  footman  who  had  lit  the 
study  fire. 

"  Listen  !  "  said  the  maid. 

They  listened  and  heard  a  sound  like  a  blow 
struck  on  some  hard  substance. 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER."  177 

"  There  it  is  again,"   said   the  maid.     "  What 
ever  can  it  be  ?  " 

The  footman  didn't  know,  but  they  both  agreed 
that  the  noise  seemed  to  come  from  the  study. 
While  they  were  still  gossiping  about  it  Catherine 
stood  at  Mark's  writing  table,  and  drew  out  from 
an  open  drawer  the  manuscript  of  the  book.  She 
lifted  it  in  her  hands  slowly  and  her  face  was  hard 
and  set.  Then  she  turned  and  carried  it  to  the 
hearth,  where  the  fire  was  blazing.  By  the  hearth 
she  paused.  She  meant  to  destroy  the  book  in 
the  fire.  But  now  that  she  saw  the  book,  now 
that  she  held  it  in  her  hands,  the  deed  seemed  so 
horribly  merciless  that  she  hesitated.  Then  she 
kneeled  down  on  the  hearth  and  leaned  towards 
the  flames.  Their  light  played  upon  her  face, 
their  heat  scorched  her  skin.  She  held  the  book 
towards  them,  over  them.  The  flames  flew  up 
towards  it  eagerly,  seeming  to  desire  it.  Catherine 
tantalized  them  by  withholding  from  them  their 
prey.  For  now,  in  this  crisis  of  action,  doubts 
assailed  her.  She  remembered  that  she  had 
never  read  the  book,  though  she  had  heard  much 
of  it  from  Bcrrand.  He  was  imaginative  and  es- 
sentially mischievous.  Perhaps  he  had  exagger- 
ated its  tendency,  drawn  too  lurid  a  picture  of 
its  horrible  power.  Catherine  turned  a  page  or 
two  and  glanced  at  the  clear,  even  writing.  It 
fascinated  her  eyes. 

At   ciglit   the   footman    opened   the    door,  an- 
nouncing dinner. 


178  TONGUES   OF  CONSCIENCE. 

Catherine  started  as  if  from  a  dream.  Her  face 
was  white  and  her  eyes  were  ablaze  with  excite- 
ment. She  put  the  manuscript  back  in  the 
drawer,  went  into  the  dining-room  and  made  a 
pretence  of  dining.  But  very  soon  she  was  back 
again  in  the  study.  She  sat  down  under  a  lamp 
by  the  fire  and  went  on  reading  the  book.  She 
knew  that  Mark  would  not  be  home  till  midnight ; 
there  was  plenty  of  time.  She  turned  the  leaves 
one  by  one,  and  presently  she  forgot  the  passing 
of  time,  she  forgot  everything  in  the  evil  fascina- 
tion of  the  book.  She  was  enthralled.  She  was 
horror-stricken.  But  she  could  not  cease  from 
reading.  Only  when  she  had  finished  she  meant 
to  burn  the  book.  No  one  else  should  ever  come 
under  its  spell.  She  never  heard  the  clock  strik- 
ing the  hours.  She  never  heard  the  sound  of 
carriage  wheels  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive.  She 
never  heard  a  step  in  the  hall,  the  opening  of  the 
study  door.  Only  when  Mark  stood  before  her 
with  an  exclamation  of  keen  surprise  did  she  start 
up.  The  manuscript  dropped  from  her  hands  on 
to  the  hearth.  The  drawer  in  the  writing  table, 
broken  open,  gaped  wide. 

"Catherine,"  Mark  said,  and  he  bent  hastily 
and  picked  up  the  book.  "  Catherine,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this?     You  have — you  have " 

He  stopped,  struck  dumb  by  flooding  astonish- 
ment. She  stared  up  at  him  without  a  word  and 
with  a  dazed  expression  in  her  eyes.  He  looked 
towards  the  drawer. 


"WILLIAM    FOSTER.  179 

"You  have  dared   to  break  open  my  writing 

table !  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  finding  a  voice.      "I    have 

dared." 

"  And  to  read — to  read " 

She  nodded.  Mark  seemed  utterly  confused 
by  surprise.  He  looked  almost  sheepish,  as  men 
do  in  blank  amazement.  She  got  up  and  stood 
before  him  and  laid  her  hands  on  his,  which  held 
the  book. 

"  You  see  that  fire  ?  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

He  looked  at  it,  as  if  he  had  not. noticed  it  be- 
fore. 

"  What's  it  for  ?  "  he  said,  also  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  " 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  To — to — you  intended  to  burn " 

She  nodded  again,  and  closed  her  hands  tightly 
on  the  book. 

"  Mark,"  she  said  solemnly.  "  It's  an  evil 
thing.     Let  it  go." 

His  face  changed.  Astonishment  died  in 
fierce  excitement. 

"You're  mad  !  "  he  said  brutally. 

And  he  struck  her  hands  away  from  the  book 
with  his  clenched  fist.  She  did  not  cry  out,  but 
her  face  became  utterly  dogged.     He  saw  that. 

"  D'you  hear  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes." 

His  passion   rose,  as  he  began    fully  to  grasp 


l8o  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

the  enormity  of  the  deed  that  his  coming  had 
prevented, 

"  You  would  destroy  my  labour,  my  very  soul," 
he  said  hoarsely.  "You  who  pretended  to  love 
me!" 

"  Because  I  love  you,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  aloud. 

"You  hate  me,"  he  cried. 

"  I  hate  to  see  you  do  evil,"  she  said. 

"This  is  fanaticism,"  he  muttered,  looking 
at  her  obstinate  white  face,  and  steady  eyes. 
"  Sheer  fanaticism." 

It  began  almost  to  frighten  him. 

"You  shall  not  do  this  evil,"  she  said.  "  You 
shall  not." 

Mark  stared  at  her  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned  away. 

"  I'll  not  argue  with  you,"  he  said.  "  But,  if 
you  had  done  what  you  meant  to  do,  if  you  had 
destroyed  my  labour,  I  would  have  recreated  it, 
every  sentence,  every  word." 

"  No,  Mark  !  " 

"  I  would,  I  would,"  he  said.  "  The  world 
shall  have  it,  the  world  should  have  had  it  even 
then.     Go  to  your  room." 

She  left  him.  But  her  face  had  not  changed 
or  lost  its  expression. 

She  went  up-stairs  slowly.  And  the  spirit  of 
her  mother  went  with  her.     She  felt  sure  of  that. 

•  ••••• 

When  two  days  afterwards,  late  in  the  evening, 


"  WILLIAM    FOSTER."  l8l 

Mark  Sirrett  suddenly  died, — from  poison,  as 
was  proved  at  Catherine's  trial — she  had  no  feel- 
ing that  Mark  was  dead.  That  only  came  to  her 
afterwards,  as  she  sat  by  the  body,  awaiting  the 
useless  arrival  of  the  doctor.  She  only  knew 
that  the  stranger  was  gone,  the  stranger  into 
whose  wild  eyes  she  had  gazed  for  the  first  time 
in  the  Pavilion  of  Granada,  when  the  world  was 
golden  beneath  them  and  the  roses  touched  his 
hair.  She  looked  at  the  body,  and  she  seemed 
to  hear  again  the  bell  of  the  cathedral,  filling  the 
drowsy  valley  with  terrible  vibrations  of  romance. 
It  was  a  passing  bell.  For  God  had  stricken 
down  "  William  Foster." 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILD. 

PART  I. 
THE   DEAD   CHILD. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILD. 


PART  I. 


THE  DEAD  CHILD. 

The  peasants  going  homeward  at  evening, 
when  the  last  sunbeams  slanted  over  the  moun- 
tains and  struck  the  ruffled  surface  of  the  river, 
did  not  hear  the  cry.  The  children,  picking 
violets  and  primroses  in  the  hedgerow  by  the 
small  white  house,  did  not  hear  it.  The  occa- 
sional tourists  who  trudged  sturdily  onward  to 
the  rugged  pass  at  the  head  of  the  valley  did  not 
hear  it. 

Only  Maurice  Dale  heard  it,  and  grew  white 
and  shivered. 

Even  to  him  it  had  been  at  first  as  faint  as  an 
echo  pulsing  through  a  dream.  lie  had  .said  to 
himself  that  it  was  a  fancy  of  his  brain.  And 
then  he  had  pulled  himself  together  and  listened. 
And  again,  as  if  from  very  far  off,  llic  little  cry 

185 


1 86  TONGUES    OF   CONSCIENCE. 

had  stolen  to  his  ear  and  faded  away.  Then  he 
had  said  to  himself  that  it  was  the  night  wind 
caught  in  some  cranny  of  the  house,  and  striving 
to  get  free.  He  had  thrown  open  his  window 
and  leaned  out,  and  trembled,  when  he  found 
that  the  hot  night  was  breathless,  airless,  that  no 
leaf  danced  in  the  elm  that  shaded  his  study, 
that  the  ivy  climbing  beneath  the  sill  did  not  stir 
as  he  gazed  down  at  it  with  straining  eyes. 

It  was  not  the  cry  of  the  wind  then.  Yet  it 
must  be.  Or  if  not  that  it  must  be  some  voice 
of  nature.  But  the  river  had  no  such  thrill  of 
pain,  of  reproach  in  its  song.  Then  he  thought 
it  was  some  night  bird,  haunting  the  eaves  of  his 
cottage,  or  the  tangle  of  wood  the  country  peo- 
ple called  his  garden.  And  he  put  on  his  clothes 
eagerly,  descended  the  narrow  staircase,  and  let 
himself  out  on  to  the  path  that  curved  to  the 
white  gate.  But,  in  the  garden  there  was  no 
sound  of  birds. 

This  was  a  year  ago.  Maurice  remembered 
very  well  his  long  vigil  in  the  garden,  and  how 
he  had  prayed  that  he  might  hear  one  note,  one 
only,  of  a  night-jar,  or  the  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the 
forest,  so  that  the  black  thought  just  born  in 
his  mind  might  be  strangled,  and  the  shadow 
driven  out  of  his  heart.  But  his  prayer  had  not 
been  granted.  And  he  knew  he  had  not  deserved 
that  it  should  be.  Towards  dawn  he  went  back 
into  his  house  again,  and  on  the  threshold,  just  as 
a  pallor  glimmered  up  as  if  out  of  the  grass  at 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  187 

his  feet,  he  heard  the  cry  again.  And  he  knew 
that  it  came  from  within  the  house. 

Then  the  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  and  he 
said  to  himself,  with  pale  lips,  "  It  is  the  cry  of 
the  child!" 

All  the  people  of  Brayfield  by  the  sea  were 
agreed  on  one  point.  The  new  doctor,  Maurice 
Dale,  young  as  he  looked,  was  clever.  He  had 
done  wonders  for  Mrs.  Bird,  the  rich  old  lady  at 
Ocean  View.  He  had  performed  a  quite  brilliant 
amputation  on  Tommy  Lync,  the  poor  little  boy 
who  had  been  run  down  by  a  demon  bicyclist. 
And  then  he  was  well  born.  It  got  about  that 
his  father  was  an  Honourable,  and  all  the  young 
ladies  of  Brayfield  trembled  at  the  thought  that 
he  was  a  bachelor.  His  looks  were  also  in  his 
favour.  Maurice  was  pale  and  tall,  with  black, 
smooth  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  regular  features, 
and  large  black  eyes.  The  expression  he  as- 
sumed suited  him.  It  was  curiously  sad.  But, 
at  first,  this  apparent  pathos  was  a  great  success 
in  Brayfield.  It  was  only  at  a  later  period  that 
it  was  the  cause  of  unkind  tittle-tattle.  In  the 
beginning  of  Maurice's  residence  at  Brayfield 
eulogy  attended  it  and  applause  was  never  far 
off.  People  said  that  Maurice  was  impression- 
able, and  that  the  vision  of  pain  upon  which  the 
medical  student's  eyes  must  look  so  closely  had 
robbed  him  of  the  natural  buoyancy  of  youth. 
Poor  young  man,  they  thought  enthusiastically, 
he  suffers  with  those  who  suflcr.     And  this  was 


l88  TONGUKS  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

considered — and  rightly  considered — a  very  touch- 
ing trait  in  Maurice. 

Brayfield  was  well  satisfied  with  its  new  doctor, 
and  set  itself  to  be  ill  for  his  benefit  with  a  fine 
perseverance.  But,  as  time  went  on,  the  satisfac- 
tion of  Brayfield  became  mingled  with  curiosity. 
The  new  doctor  was  almost  too  melancholy.  It 
would  not  be  true  to  say  that  he  never  smiled, 
but  his  smile  was  even  sadder  than  his  gravity. 
There  was  a  chill  in  it,  as  there  is  a  chill  in  the 
first  light  of  dawn.  One  or  two  particularly  im- 
pressionable people  declared  that  it  frightened 
them,  that  it  was  uncanny.  This  idea,  once 
started,  developed.  It  went  from  house  to 
house.  And  so,  gradually,  a  spirit  of  whisper- 
ing awe  arose  in  the  little  town,  and  the  vision 
of  human  pain  ceased  to  be  altogether  account- 
able for  the  pale  sorrow  of  the  young  doctor.  It 
was  decided  that  his  habitual  depression  must  take 
its  rise  from  some  more  personal  cause,  and,  upon 
this  decision,  gossip  naturally  ran  a  wild  course. 
Since  nobody  knew  anything  about  Maurice  Dale 
except  that  his  father  was  an  Honourable,  rumour 
had  plenty  of  elbow-room.  It  took  advantage  of 
the  situation,  and  Maurice  was  more  talked  about 
than  anybody  in  Brayfield.  And  Lily  Alston, 
the  daughter  of  Canon  Alston,  Rector  of  Bray- 
field, launched  out  into  surmises  which,  however, 
she  kept  to  herself. 

Lily,  at  this  time,  was  a  curious  mixture  of 
romance  and   religion,   of  flightincss    and   faith. 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  189 

She  read  French  novels  all  night  and  went  to 
early  service  in  the  morning.  She  studied  Swin- 
burne and  taught  in  the  Sunday-school  with  al- 
most equal  ardour,  and  did  her  duty  and  pursued 
a  thousand  things  outside  of  her  duty  with  such 
enthusiasm  that  she  was  continually  knocked  up. 
On  these  continual  occasions  Maurice  Dale  was 
invariably  sent  for,  and  so  an  intimacy  grew  up 
between  him  and  the  Rectory,  which  contained 
the  Canon,  his  daughter,  and  the  servants.  For 
Mrs.  Alston  was  dead,  and  Lily  was  an  only  child. 
Real  intimacy  with  a  Rectory  means,  above  all 
things,  Sunday  suppers  after  evening  church,  and, 
in  time,  it  became  an  unalterable  custom  for 
Maurice  Dale  to  spend  the  twilight  of  his  Sab- 
baths with  the  Canon  and  his  daughter.  The 
Canon,  who  was  intellectual  and  desolate,  despite 
his  daughter,  since  his  wife's  death,  liked  a  talk 
with  Maurice  ;  and  Lily,  without  having  fallen  in 
love  with  the  young  doctor,  thought  him,  as  she 
said  to  herself,  "a  wonderfully  interesting  study." 

Lily's  wild  surmises,  already  alluded  to,  were 
born  on  one  of  these  Sabbath  evenings  in  winter, 
when  she,  the  Canon,  and  Maurice  were  gathered 
round  the  fire  after  supper. 

The  sea  could  be  heard  rolling  upon  the  pebbly 
beach  at  a  distance,  and  the  wind  played  about 
the  skirts  of  the  darkness.  The  Canon,  happily 
at  case  after  his  hard  day's  work,  rested  in  his  rid 
armchair  puffing  at  his  well-seasoned  pipe.  Lily 
was  lying  on  a  big  old-fashioned  sofa  drawn  be- 


IQO  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

fore  the  flames,  a  Persian  cat,  grave  in  its  cloud 
of  fur,  nestling  against  her  and  singing  its  song  of 
comfort.  Maurice  Dale  sat  upright,  pulling  at  a 
cigar.  It  chanced  that  Lily  had  been  away  the 
week  before,  paying  a  visit  in  London,  and  natur- 
ally the  conversation  turned  idly  upon  her  doings. 

"  I  used  to  love  London,"  the  Canon  said,  with 
a  half  sigh.  "  In  the  old  days,  when  I  shocked 
one  or  two  good  people  here,  Lily,  by  taking 
your  mother  to  the  playhouses.  Somehow  I 
don't  care  for  these  modern  plays.  I  don't  think 
she  would  have  liked  them." 

"  I  love  London,  too,"  Lily  said,  in  her  enthu- 
siastic voice,  "  but  I  think  modern  plays  are  in- 
tensely interesting,  especially  Ibsen's." 

"  They're  cruel,"  the  Canon  said. 

"  Yes,  father,  but  not  more  cruel  than  some 
of   the  older  pieces." 

"  Such  as — ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  '  The  Bells.'  I  saw  Irving 
in  it  on  Friday  for  the  first  time.  You've  seen 
it,  of  course,  Mr.  Dale  ?  " 

Maurice,  who  had  been  gazing  into  the  fire, 
looked  up.  His  lips  tightened  for  a  moment, 
then  he  said  : 

"  No,  never  !  " 

"  What  !  Though  you  lived  in  London  all 
those  years  when  you  were  a  medical  student  ?  " 

"  I  had  opportunities  of  seeing  it,  of  course,  but 
somehow  I  never  took  them — and  I  dislike  the 
subject  of  the  play  greatly  now." 


THE   DEAD   CHILD.  IQI 

There  was  a  certain  vehemence  in  his  voice. 

"  Why  ?  "  the  Canon  asked.  "  I  remember  my 
wife  was  very  fond  of  it." 

"  I  think  it  morbid  and  dangerous.  There  are 
troubles  enough  in  life  without  adding  to  them 
such  a  hateful  notion  as  a — a  haunting  ;  a  horrible 
.  thing  that — "  he  looked  round  with  a  sort  of 
questioning  gaze  in  his  dark  eyes — "  that  must  be 
an  impossibility." 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  Canon  said,  without  ob- 
serving the  glance.  "  I  don't  know.  A  sin  may 
well  haunt  a  man." 

"  Perhaps.  But  only  as  a  memory,  not  as  a 
jingle  of  bells,  not  as  a  definite  noise,  like  a  noise 
a  man  may  hear  in  the  street  any  day.  That 
must  be  impossible.  Now — don't  you  say 
so  : 

Lily,  on  her  sofa,  had  noticed  the  very  peculiar 
excitement  of  the  young  doctor's  manner,  and 
that  his  denial  was  really  delivered  in  the  form 
of  an  ardent  interrogation.  But  the  Canon's 
mind  was  not  .so  alert  after  the  strain  of  pulpit 
oratory.  He  was  calmly  unaware  of  any  per- 
sonal thrill  in  the  discussion. 

"  I  would  not  be  sure,"  he  said.  "  God  may 
have  what  men  would  call  supernatural  ways  of 
punishment  as  well  as  natural  ones." 

"  I  decline  to  believe  in  the  supernatural," 
Maurice  said,  rather  harshly. 

"Granted  that  these  bells  might  ring  in  a  man's 
mind,  so  that  he  believed  that  his  cars  actually 


192  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

heard  them.  That  would  be  just  as  bad  for 
him." 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  he  is  a  madman,"  Lily  said. 

Maurice  started  round  on  his  chair. 

*'  That's  a — a  rather  shocking  presumption,  isn't 
it?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Well,"  the  Canon  said,  knocking  the  ashes 
slowly  out  of  his  pipe,  "if  you  exclude  the  super- 
natural in  such  a  case,  and  come  upon  the  natural, 
I  must  say  I  think  Lily  is  not  far  wrong.  The 
man  who  hears  perpetually  a  non-existent  sound 
connected  with  some  incident  of  his  past  will  at 
any  rate  soon  be  on  the  highway  to  insanity,  I 
fancy." 

Maurice  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  but  Lily 
noticed  that  he  looked  deeply  disturbed.  His 
lips  were  pressed  together.  His  eyes  shone  with 
excitement,  and  his  pale  forehead  frowned.  In 
the  short  silence  that  followed  on  the  Canon's  re- 
mark, he  seemed  to  be  thinking  steadfastly.  At 
last  he  lifted  up  his  head  with  a  jerk  and  said: 

"  A  man  may  have  a  strong  imagination,  with- 
out being  a  madman,  Canon.  He  may  choose 
to  translate  a  mere  memory  into  a  sound-com- 
panion, just  as  men  often  choose  to  play  with 
their  fancies  in  various  ways.  He  may  elect  to 
say  to  himself,  I  remember  vividly  the  cry  of — " 
He  stopped  abruptly,  then  went  on  hastily,  "  the 
sound  of  bells.  My  mind  hears  them.  Let  me — 
for  my  amusement — push  on  my  imagination  a 
step   further  and  sec  what  will  happen.     Hark ! 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  193 

It's  done.  My  ears  can  hear  now  what  a  moment 
ago  only  my  mind  could  hear.  Yes,  my  ears 
hear  it  now." 

He  spoke  with  such  conviction,  and  the  gesture 
which  he  linked  with  his  words  was  so  dramatic, 
that  Lily  pushed  herself  up  on  the  pillows  of  the 
sofa,  and  even  the  Canon  involuntarily  assumed 
an  attitude  of  keen  attention. 

"  Why,  Dale,"  the  latter  said  after  a  moment, 
"  you  should  have  been  an  actor,  not  a  doctor. 
Really  you  led  me  to  anticipate  bells,  and  I  only 
hear  the  wind.  Lily,  didn't  you  feel  as  I  did, 
eh?" 

Lily  had  gone  a  little  pale.  She  looked  across 
at  Maurice. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  expected  to  hear  bells, 
father,"  she  said  slowly. 

As  she  said  those  words,  Maurice  Dale,  for  the 
first  time,  felt  as  if  a  human  being  drew  very  near 
to  his  secret.  Lily's  glance  at  him  asked  him  a 
question.  "  What  was  it  that  pierced  through 
the  wind  so  faintly?"  it  seemed  to  say. 

"What  then?"  the  Canon  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied. 

Maurice  got  up. 

"I  must  go  now,"  he  said. 

The  Canon  protested.  It  was  early.  They 
must  have  one  more  smoke.  But  Maurice  could 
not  be  induced  to  stay.  As  he  walked  rapidly 
homeward  in  the  darkness  he  told  himself  again 
and  again  that   he  was  a  fool.      How  could  it  be? 


194  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

How  could  she  hear  the  cry?  The  cry  of  the 
child? 

That  night  Lily  did  not  read  a  French  novel. 
She  lay  awake.  Her  fancy  was  set  on  fire  by 
the  evening's  talk.  Her  girlish  imagination  was 
kindled.  In  those  dark  and  silent  hours  she  first 
began  to  weave  a  web  of  romance  round  Maurice, 
to  see  him  set  in  a  cloud  of  looming  tragedy. 
He  looked  more  beautiful  to  her  in  this  cloud 
than  he  had  looked  before.  Lily  thought  it 
might  be  wicked,  but  somehow  she  could  not  help 
loving  mental  suffering — in  others.  And  the  face 
of  Maurice  gazed  at  her  in  the  blackness  beneath 
a  shadowy  crown  of  thorns. 

Next  day,  at  the  early  service,  she  was  inat- 
tentive to  the  ministrations  of  religion.  Her 
father  seemed  a  puppet  at  its  prayers,  the  choir 
a  row  of  surpliced  dolls,  the  organ  an  empty 
voice.  Only  at  the  end,  when  silence  fell  on  the 
kneeling  worshippers,  did  she  wake  with  a  start 
of  contrition  to  the  knowledge  of  her  impiety, 
and  blush  between  her  little  hands  at  her  con- 
centration upon  the  suspected  sorrow  of  the 
young  doctor.  But  in  that  night  and  that  morn- 
ing Lily  ran  forward  towards  Maurice,  set  her 
feet  upon  the  line  that  divides  men  from  women. 
She  knew  that  she  had  done  so  only  when  she 
next  encountered  him.  Then,  as  their  eyes  met 
she  was  seized  with  a  painful  idea  of  guilt,  bred 
by  an  absurd  feeling  that  he  could  see  into  her 
mind,  and  know  how  all  her  thoughts  had  been 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  195 

crowding  about  him.  It  is  a  dangerous  symptom 
that  sensation  of  one's  mind  being  visible  to  an- 
other as  a  thing  observed  through  glass.  Lily- 
did  not  understand  her  danger,  but  she  was  full 
of  a  turmoil  of  uneasiness.  Maurice  noticed  it 
and  felt  conscious  also,  as  if  some  secret  under- 
standing existed  between  him  and  Lily,  yet  there 
was  none,  there  could  be  none. 

In  conclave  the  individually  stupid  can  some- 
times almost  touch  cleverness.  Brayfield  only 
began  to  talk  steadily  about  Lily  and  the  young 
doctor  from  the  day  of  this  meeting  of  self-con- 
sciousnesses which  had,  as  it  chanced,  taken  place 
on  the  pavement  of  the  curved  parade  by  the  sea. 
Till  that  day  the  little  town  had  attributed  to 
Maurice  hopelessness,  to  Lily  simply  friendship 
for  a  sad  young  man.  Now  its  members  talked 
the  usual  gossip  that  attends  the  flirtations  of  the 
sincere,  but  added  to  it  a  considerable  divergence 
of  opinions  as  to  the  likelihood  of  Maurice's  con- 
version from  despair.  Lily,  they  were  all  decided, 
began  to  love  Maurice.  But  some  believed  and 
some  denied,  that  Maurice  began  to  love  Lily. 
This  would  have  been  hard  for  Lily  had  she 
noticed  it,  but  her  fanciful  and  enthusiastic  mind 
was  concentrated  on  one  thing  only  and  her  range 
of  vision  was  consequently  narrowed.  She  was 
incessantly  engaged  in  trying  to  trace  the  foot- 
steps of  the  doctor's  misery,  of  which  she  was  now 
fully  convinced.  And  indeed,  since  that  Sabbath 
evening  already  described,  Maurice  had  scarcely 


196  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

endeavoured  to  play  any  part  of  ordinary  happi- 
ness to  her.  Her  partial  penetration  of  his  secret 
quickly  brought  a  sense  of  relief  to  him.  There 
was  something  consoling  in  the  idea  that  this 
little  girl  divined  his  loneliness  of  soul,  if  not  its 
reason. 

By  degrees  they  grew  quietly  so  accustomed  to 
the  silent  familiarity  existing  between  their  ebb- 
ing and  flowing  thoughts ;  they  were — without 
a  word  spoken — so  thoroughly  certain  of  the 
language  their  minds  were  uttering  to  each  other, 
that  when  their  lips  did  speak  at  length,  the 
words  that  came  were  like  a  continuance  of  an 
already  long  conversation. 

Lily  was,  once  more,  knocked  up,  and  the  Canon 
called  in  Maurice  to  prescribe.  He  arrived  in  the 
late  afternoon  and  was  taken  by  the  Canon  into 
Lily's  little  sitting-room,  where  she  lay  on  a  couch 
by  the  fire.  A  small,  shaded,  reading  lamp  defined 
the  shadows  craftily. 

"  Now,  Dale,"  the  Canon  said,  "  for  goodness' 
sake  tell  her  to  be  more  orderly  and  to  do  less — 
mind  and  body.  She  behaves  as  if  life  was  a 
whirlpool.  She  swims  stupendously,  tell  her  to 
float — and  give  her  a  tonic." 

And  he  went  out  of  the  room  shaking  his  head 
at  the  culprit  on  the  couch. 

When  the  door  had  shut  upon  him,  Maurice 
came  up  to  the  fire  in  silence  and  looked  at  Lily. 
She  smiled  at  him  rather  hopelessly,  and  then 
suddenly  she  said: 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  197 

"  Poor  dear  father  !  To  ask  you  to  make  me 
take  life  so  easily  !  " 

That  remark  was  the  first  onward  gliding  of 
their  minds  in  speech,  the  uttered  continuance 
of  the  hitherto  silent  colloquy  between  them. 
Maurice  sat  down.  He  accepted  the  irony  of 
the  situation  suggested  by  the  Canon  without 
attempt  at  a  protest. 

"  Life  can  never  be  easy,  if  one  thinks,"  he 
said.  Then,  trying  to  adopt  the  medical  tone,  he 
added  : 

"  But  you  think  too  much.  I  have  often  felt 
that  lately." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

Her  eyes  were  bent  on  him  with  a  scrutiny  that 
was  nearly  ungirlish.  Maurice  tried  not  to  see  it 
as  he  put  his  fingers  on  her  wrist.     She  added  : 

"  I  have  felt  that  about  you  too." 

Maurice  had  taken  out  his  watch.  Without 
speaking  he  timed  the  fluttering  pulsation  of  her 
life,  then,  dropping  her  hand  and  returning  the 
watch  to  his  pocket : 

"  Your  too  eager  thoughts  were  of  mc  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  but  yours  were  not  of  mc." 

"  Not  always,"  he  said,  with  an  honesty  that 
pleased  her. 

And  again  Lily  saw  above  his  face  the  shadowy 
crown  of  thorns.  She  was  really  unwell  atid 
ready  to  be  unstrung.  Pt-rhajis  tin's  made  her 
say  hastily,  as  she  shifted  lower  (jii  her  cushions; 


iqS  tongues  of  conscience. 

"  I'm  partly  ill  to-day  because  you  let  me  see 
how  horribly  you  are  suffering." 

"  Yes,"  Maurice  said  heavily.  "  I  let  you  see 
it.     Why's  that  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  like  a  shock  to  either  of 
them  in  the  directness  of  their  words.  They 
seemed  spoken  rightly  at  the  inevitable  time. 
No  thought  of  question,  of  denial,  was  entertain- 
ed by  them.  Maurice  sat  there  by  her  and 
dropped  his  mask  utterly. 

"  Miss  Alston,  I  am  a  haunted  man,"  he  said. 

And,  in  a  moment,  as  he  spoke,  he  seemed  to 
be  old.  Lily  said  nothing.  She  twisted  between 
her  little  fingers  the  thin  rug  that  covered  her, 
and  was  angry  with  herself  because,  all  of  a 
sudden,  she  wanted  to  cry. 

"And  I  am  beginning  to  wonder,"  Maurice  went 
on,"  how  much  longer  I  can  bear  it,  just  how  long." 

Lily  cleared  her  throat.  It  struck  her  as  odd 
that  she  did  not  feel  strange  with  this  man  who 
looked  so  old  in  the  thin  light  from  the  lamp. 
Indeed,  now  that  the  mask  had  entirely  fallen 
from  him,  he  seemed  more  familiar  to  her  than 
ever  before. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  bear  everything  so  long  as 
God  chooses,"  she  said. 

"  No,  so  long  as  we  choose." 

"But  how?" 

"  To  live  to  bear  it.  I  cannot  be  haunted  after 
I  am  dead.     That  can't  be." 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sort 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  199 

of  pale  defiance,  as  if  he  would  dare  her  to  con- 
tradict him.  Lily  confronted  the  horror  of  his 
eyes,  and  a  shudder  ran  over  her.  The  thorns 
had  pierced  more  deeply  even  than  she  had  be- 
lieved as  she  lay  awake  in  the  night.  Just  then 
a  door  banged  and  a  footstep  approached  on  the 
landing. 

"  Hush,  it's  father,"  Lily  whispered. 

And  the  Canon  entered  to  ask  the  condition  of 
the  patient.  Maurice  prescribed  and  went  away. 
In  the  windy  evening  as  he  walked,  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  large  change  dawning  over  his  life. 
Either  the  spirit  of  prophecy — which  comes  to 
many  men  even  in  modern  days — was  upon 
him,  or  hope,  which  he  believed  quite  dead  in 
him,  stirred  faintly  in  his  dream.  In  either  event 
he  saw  that  on  the  black  walk  of  his  life  there  was 
the  irregular,  and  as  yet  paltry,  line  of  some  writ- 
ing, some  inscription.  He  could  not  read  the 
words.  He  only  knew  that  there  were  some  words 
to  be  read.  And  one  of  them  was  surely  Lily's 
name. 

He  did  not  meet  her  until  the  evening  of  the 
following  Sunday  when,  as  usual,  he  went  to  sup- 
per at  the  Rectory.  Lily  was  better  and  had 
been  to  church.  The  Canon  was  delighted  and 
thanked  Maurice  for  his  skill  in  diagnosis  and  in 
treatment. 

"  You  cure  everyone,"   he  said. 

Lily  and  Maurice  exchanged  a  glance.  He 
saw  how  well   she   understood    that   he   felt  the 


200  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

words  to  be  an  irony  though  they  were  uttered 
so  innocently.  After  supper,  just  as  the  Canon, 
with  his  habitual  Sunday  sigh  of  satisfaction,  was 
beginning  to  light  his  pipe, Sarah, the  parlour  maid, 
came  in  with  a  note.  The  Canon  read  it  and  his 
sigh  moved  onwards  to  something  not  unlike  a 
groan.  He  put  his  filled  pipe  down  on  the  man- 
telpiece. 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?  "  asked  Lily, 
"  Miss  Bigelow,"  he  replied  laconically. 
"  On  a  Sunday.     Oh,  it's  too  bad  !  " 
"  It  can't  be  helped,"  the  Canon  said.     "  Ex- 
cuse me,  Dale,  I  have  to  go  out.     But — stay — I 
shall  be  back  in  half  an  hour." 

And  he  went  out  into  the  hall,  took  his  coat 
and  hat  and  left  the  house.  Miss  Bigelow  was 
his  cross.  She  was  a  rich  invalid,  portentously 
delicate,  full  of  benefactions  to  the  parish  and 
fears  for  the  welfare  of  her  soul.  She  kept  the 
Canon's  charities  going  royally,  but,  in  return, 
she  claimed  the  Canon's  ghostly  ministrations  at 
odd  times  to  an  extent  that  sometimes  caused  the 
good  man's  saintly  equanimity  to  totter.  Hating 
doctors  and  loving  clergymen.  Miss  Bigelow  was 
forever  summoning  her  distracted  father  confes- 
sor to  speed  that  parting  guest — her  soul,  which, 
however,  never  departed.  She  remarked  in  con- 
fidence to  those  about  her,  that  she  had  endured 
"  a  dozen  deathbeds."  The  Canon  had  sat  be- 
side them  all.  He  must  now  take  his  way  to  the 
thirteenth. 


THE   DEAD  CHILD.  201 

As  soon  as  the  hall  door  banged  Maurice  looked 
up  at  Lily. 

"  Poor,  dear  father,"  she  murmured. 

"  I  am  glad,"  Maurice  said  abruptly. 

The  remark  might  have  been  called  rude,  but 
it  was  so  simply  made  that  it  had  the  dignity 
belonging  to  any  statement  of  plain  truth. 
Neither  rude  nor  polite,  it  was  merely  a  cry  of 
fact  from  an  overburdened  human  soul.  Lily  felt 
that  the  words  were  forced  from  the  young  doctor 
by  some  strange  agitation  that  fought  to  find  ex- 
pression. 

"  You  wish — you  wish — "  she  began. 

Then  she  stopped.  The  flood  of  expression 
that  welled  up  in  her  companion's  face  frightened 
her.  She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  the  hidden 
thing,  the  force,  that  could  loose  such  a  sea. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said  like  a  schoolgirl — or  so, 
a  moment  afterwards,  she  feared. 

"  I  ought  not  to  tell  you,"  Maurice  said,  "  I 
ought  not,  but  I  must — I  must." 

He  had  got  up  and  was  standing  before  her. 
His  back  was  to  the  fire,  and  a  shadow  was  over 
his  face, 

"  I  want  to  tell  you.  You  have  made  me  want 
to.     Why  is  that  ?  " 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  questioning  his  own  in- 
tellect for  the  reason,  not  asking  it  of  her.  And 
she  did  not  try  to  answer  his  question. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "  it  is  because  you 
arc  the  only  human  being  who  has  partially  under- 


202  TONGUES   OF     CONSCIENCE. 

stood  that  there  is  something  with  me  that  sets 
me  apart  from  all  my  kind,  from  all  the  others." 

"  With  you  ?  "  Lily  said. 

She  felt  horribly  frightened  and  yet  strong  and 
earnest. 

•'  Yes,  with  me,  "  he  answered.  "  I  told  you  that 
I  was  a  haunted  man.  Miss  Alston,  can  you,  will 
you  bear  to  hear  what  it  is  that  is  with  me,  and 
why  it  comes.  It  is  a  story  that,  perhaps,  your 
father  might  forbid  you  to  read.  I  don't  know. 
And,  if  it  was  fiction,  perhaps  he  would  be  right. 
But — but — I  think — I  wonder — you  might  help 
me.     I  can't  see  how,  but — I   feel — " 

He  faltered  suddenly,  and  seemed  for  the  first 
time  to  become  self-conscious  and  confused. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  "  Lily  said. 

She  felt  rather  as  if  she  were  beginning  to  read 
some  strange  French  story  by  night.  Maurice 
still  stood  on  the  hearth. 

"  It  is  a  sound  that  is  with  me,"  he  said.  "  Only 
that ;  never  anything  else  but  that." 

"  A  sound,"  she  repeated. 

She  thought  of  their  conversation  about  the 
bells. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  cry — the  cry  of  a  child." 

"Yes?" 

"  That's  nothing — you  think  ?  Absurd  for  a 
man  to  heed  such  a  trifle?" 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  comes?" 

Maurice  hesitated.  His  eyes  searched  the  face 
of  the  little  girl  with  an  almost  hard  gaze  of  scru- 


THE  DEAD  CHILD. 


203 


tiny,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  sum  up  the  details  of 
her  nature. 

"  Long  ago — before  I  came  here,  before  I  was 
qualified,  I  was  cruel,  bitterly  cruel  to  a  child," 
he  said  at  last,  speaking  now  very  coldly  and 
distinctly. 

His  eyes  were  on  Lily.  Had  she  made  just 
then  any  movement  of  horror  or  of  disgust,  had  an 
expression  betokening  fear  of  him  come  into  her 
eyes,  Maurice  knew  that  his  lips  would  be  sealed, 
that  he  would  bid  her  good-night  and  leave  her. 
But  she  only  looked  more  intent,  more  expectant. 
He  went  on. 

"  I  was  bitterly  cruel  to  my  own  child,"  he  said. 

Then  Lily  moved  suddenly.  Maurice  thought 
she  was  going  to  start  up.  If  she  had  intended 
to  she  choked  the  impulse.  Was  she  shocked  ? 
He  could  not  tell.  She  had  turned  her  face  away 
from  him.  lie  wondered  why,  but  he  did  not 
know  that  those  last  words  had  given  to  Lily  an 
abrupt  and  fiery  insight  into  the  depths  of  her 
heart. 

"  At  that  time,  "  Maurice  said,  still  speaking 
very  distinctly  and  quietly,  "  I  was  desperately 
ambitious.  I  was  bitten  by  the  viper  whose  poi- 
son, stealing  through  all  a  man's  veins,  is  emula- 
tion. My  only  desire,  my  only  aim  in  life  was  to 
beat  all  the  men  of  my  year,  to  astonish  all  the 
autiioritics  of  the  hospital  to  wiiich  I  was  at- 
tached by  the  brilliance  of  my  nttainnKMits  and  my 
achievements,  I  was  ambition  incarnate,  and  such 


204  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

mad  ambition  is  the  most  cruel  thing  in  the  world. 
And  my  child  interfered  with  my  ambition.  It 
cried,  how  it  cried  !  " 

He  was  becoming  less  definitely  calm. 

"  It  cried  through  my  dreams,  my  thoughts, 
my  endeavours,my  determinations.  Do  you  know 
what  a  weapon  a  sound  can  be.  Miss  Alston  ? 
Perhaps  not.  A  sound  can  be  like  a  sword  and 
pierce  you,  like  a  bludgeon  and  strike  you  down. 
A  little  sound  can  nestle  in  your  life,  and  change 
all  the  colour  and  all  the  meaning  of  it.  The  cry 
of  the  living  child  was  terrible  to  me,  I  thought 
then.  But — then — I  had  never  heard  the  cry  of 
the  dead  child.  You  see  I  wanted  to  forget  some- 
thing. And  the  tiny  cry  of  the  child  recalled  it. 
There  were  no  words  in  the  cry,  and  yet  there 
were  words, — so  it  seemed  to  me — telling  over  a 
past  history.  This  history — well,  I  want  to  say  to 
you — 

Lily  had  now  put  a  guard  on  watch  over  against 
her  impulsive  nature.  When  Maurice  stopped 
speaking  she  was  able  to  look  towards  him  again 
and  murmur: 

"  Say  all  you  want  to." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  almost  eagerly.  "  If  you 
knew — Miss  Alston,  before  this  time,  when  I  was 
a  very  young  student,  I  had  fallen  into  one  of  the 
most  fatal  confusions  of  youth.  I  had  made  a 
mistake  as  to  the  greatest  need  of  my  own 
nature.  I  had,  for  a  flash  of  time,  thought  my 
greatest  need  was  love." 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  205 

"  And  it  wasn't,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  note  of 
wonder  in  her  voice. 

"  No,  it  was  success,  to  outstrip  my  fellows. 
But  I  thought  it  was  love,  and  I  followed  my 
thought  and  I  sacrificed  another  to  my  thought. 
My  child's  mother  died  almost  in  giving  her  to 
me,  and,  in  dying,  made  me  promise  to  keep  the 
child  always  with  me.  I  kept  that  promise.  I 
was  a  young  student,  very  poor.  My  love  had 
been  secret.  Now  I  was  alone  with  this  helpless 
child.  I  left  my  own  lodgings  and  took  others. 
I  brought  it  there,  and  its  presence  obliged  me  to 
shut  my  doors  against  my  own  family  and  against 
my  friends.  To  keep  the  door  shut  I  put  for- 
ward the  excuse  of  my  ambition.  I  said  that  I 
was  giving  myself  up  to  work  and  I  shut  myself 
in  with  the  child.  I  was  its  nurse  as  well  as  its 
father.  I  thought  I  should  be  sufficient  for  it. 
But  it  missed — her,  whom  I  scarcely  missed." 

"  You  had  not  loved  her?" 

Maurice  bent  his  head. 

"  I  had  made  a  mistake,  as  I  said.  I  had  only 
thought  so.  Long  before  she  died  I  had  almost 
hated  her  for  crippling  my  ambition.  She  was 
swept  out  of  my  path.  But  the  child  was  left 
crying  for  her." 

"  Yes.     I  know." 

"  Its  wail  came  eternally  between  me  and  my 
great  desire.  When  I  sat  down  to  work  the 
sound — which  I  could  not  quiet— perplexed  my 
brain.     When   I   lay  down  to  get,  in  sleep,  power 


206  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

for  fresh  work,  it  struck  through  my  dreams.  I 
heard  it  when  the  stars  were  out  over  London, 
and  in  the  dawn,  when  from  my  lodging  windows 
I  could  see  the  first  light  on  the  Thames.  Miss 
Alston,  at  last  it  maddened  me." 

Lily  was  pale.  She  scarcely  knew  of  what  she 
was  expectant. 

"  I  had  tried  to  comfort  the  child.  I  had  failed. 
Now  I  determined  to  forget  it,  to  shut  it  out 
from  my  working  life.  At  last,  by  force  of  will,  I 
almost  succeeded.  I  read,  I  wrote,  I  analysed 
the  causes  of  disease,  the  results  of  certain  treat- 
ments as  opposed  to  the  results  of  others.  And 
sometimes  I  no  longer  heard  my  child,  no  longer 
knew  whether  it  wailed  and  wept  or  whether  it 
was  silent.     But  one  evening — " 

Maurice  stopped.  His  face  was  very  white  and 
his  eyes  burned  with  excitement. 

"  One  evening,"  he  repeated,  speaking  almost 
with  difficulty,  and  with  the  obstinate  note  in  his 
voice  of  one  telling  a  secret  half  against  his  will 
and  better  judgment,  "  I  could  not  work.  The 
wail  of  the  child  was  so  loud,  so  alarmed,  so  full 
of  a  fear  that  seemed  to  my  imagination  intel- 
ligent, and  based  on  a  knowledge  of  something  I 
did  not  know,  that  my  professional  instinct  was 
aroused.  At  first  I  listened,  sitting  at  my  writ- 
ing table.  Then  I  got  up  and  softly  approached 
the  folding  doors.  Beyond  them,  in  the  dark, 
the  child  lamented  like  one  to  whom  a  nameless 
horror  draws  near.     Never   had   I   known  it  to 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  207 

weep  like  this  ;  for  this  was  no  cry  after  a  mother, 
no  cry  of  desire,  no  cry  even  of  sorrow.  It  was  a 
half-strangled  scream  of  terror,  I  did  not  go  into 
the  room,  but  as  I  listened,  I  knew — " 

He  faltered. 

"  Yes,"  Lily  said. 

*'  As  I  listened  I  knew  what  the  cry  meant. 
Miss  Alston,  is  it  not  strange  that  even  a  baby 
who  scarcely  knows  life  knows  so  well — death?  " 

"  Death  !  " 

"Yes,  recognises  its  coming,  shrinks  from  it, 
fears  it  with  the  terror  of  a  clear  intelligence.  Is 
it  not  very  strange?  " 

"  Death  !  "  Lily  repeated. 

She  too  was  pale.  Maurice  continued  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  I  understood  the  meaning  of  the  cry,  and  I 
did  not  enter  the  inner  room.  No,  I  walked  back 
to  my  writing  table,  put  my  hands  over  my  ears 
— to  deaden  the  cry — and  gave  myself  again  to 
work.  I  low  long  I  worked  I  don't  know,  but 
presently  I  heard  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door  of 
my  room.  I  sprang  up  and  opened  it.  My  land- 
lady stood  outside. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  good  woman's  face  was  grave. 

"  Sir,  I  know  that  child  must  be  ill,"  she  said. 

"  111 — why  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  its  crying  is  awful.  It  goes  right 
through  mc." 

I  pushed  the  woman  out  almost  roughly. 


208  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  It  is  not  ill,"  I  said.  "  It  is  only  restless. 
Leave  me.     Don't  you  see  I  am  working  ?  " 

"  And  I  shut  the  door  sharply.  I  sat  down 
again  at  my  table  and  toiled  till  dawn.  I  re- 
member that  dawn  so  well.  At  last  my  brain  had 
utterly  tired.  I  could  work  no  longer.  I  pushed 
away  my  papers  and  got  up.  The  room  was 
misty — so  I  thought — with  a  flickering  grey  light. 
The  dirty  white  blind  was  drawn  half  up.  I 
looked  out  over  the  river,  and  from  it  I  heard  the 
dull  shout  of  a  man  on  a  black  barge.  This  shout 
recalled  to  me  my  child  and  the  noise  of  its 
lament.  I  listened.  All  was  silent.  There  was 
no  murmur  from  the  inner  room.  And  then  I  re- 
member that  suddenly  the  silence,  for  which  I 
had  so  often  longed  and  prayed,  frightened  me. 
It  seemed  full  of  a  dreadful  meaning.  I  waited  a 
moment.  Then  I  walked  softly  across  the  room 
to  the  folding  doors.  They  were  closed,  I  opened 
them  furtively  and  looked  into  the  bedroom.  It 
was  nearly  dark.  Approaching  the  bed  I  could 
scarcely  discern  the  tiny  white  heap  which  marked 
where  the  child  lay  among  the  tumbled  bed- 
clothes. I  bent  down  to  listen  to  the  sound  of 
its  breathing.  I  could  not  hear  the  sound.  Then 
I  caught  the  child  in  my  arms  and  carried  it  over 
to  the  sitting-room  window  so  that  the  dawn 
might  strike  upon  its  little  face.  The  face  was 
discoloured.  The  heart  was  not  beating.  Miss 
Alston,  while  I  worked,  my  child  had  died  in  a 
convulsion.     It  had  striven  against  death,  poor 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  209 

feeble  baby,  and  had  had  no  help  from  its  father. 
My  medical  skill  might  have  eased  its  sufferings. 
Might  have  saved  it.  But  I  had  deliberately 
closed  my  ears  to  its  appeal  for  love,  for  assistance. 
I  had  let  it  go.     I  should  never  hear  it  again." 

Maurice  had  spoken  the  last  words  with  excite- 
ment. Now  he  paused.  With  an  obvious  effort 
he  controlled  himself  and  added  calmly  : 

"  I  buried  my  child  and  gave  myself  again  to 
work.  My  examination  was  close  at  hand.  I 
passed  it  brilliantly.  But  I  shuddered  at  my 
success.  Those  lodgings  by  the  river  had  become 
horrible  to  me.  I  left  them,  took  a  practice  in  a 
remote  Cumberland  valley,  and  withdrew  myself 
from  the  world,  from  all  who  had  known  me.  In 
this  retirement,  however,  I  had  a  companion  of 
whose  presence  at  first  I  was  unaware.  The  dead 
child  followed  me,  the  child  of  whom  now  I  feel 
myself  to  have  been  the  murderer." 

"  No — no — not  that  !  "  Lily  whispered.  But 
he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 

"  One  night,"  he  continued,  "  in  my  lonely 
house  in  the  valley  I  was  awakened  by  some 
sound.  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened.  All  was 
black  around  me,  and  at  first  all  was  quiet  too.  I 
lay  down  again  to  sleep.  But  as  I  touched  the 
pillow  I  heard  a  faint  murmur  that  seemed  to 
come  from  far  away.  I  said  to  myself  that  it  was 
a  fancy  of  my  mind  but  again  it  came.  Then  I 
thought  it  was  the  wind  caught  in  some  cranny 
of  my  house.      I  opened  my  window  and  leaned 


210  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

out.  But  there  was  no  wind  in  the  trees.  What 
was  the  noise  then  ?  The  cry  of  a  bird  perhaps. 
Yes,  it  must  be  that.  Yet  did  any  note  of  a  bird 
have  a  thrill  of  pain  in  it  ?  I  hurried  on  some 
clothes  and  let  myself  out  into  the  garden.  I 
would  hear  that  bird  again.  I  would  convince 
myself  of  its  presence.  But  in  the  garden  I  could 
hear  nothing  save  the  thin  murmur  of  the 
stream  that  threaded  the  valley.  So  I  returned 
to  the  house,  and  at  the  door  I  was  greeted 
by  a  little  cry  from  within.  Miss  Alston,  it  was 
the  cry  of  my  dead  child,  full  of  pain  and  of 
eternal  reproach.  I  shut  the  door,  closing  my- 
self in  with  my  fate,  and  since  that  night  I  have 
been  a  haunted  man.  Scarcely  a  day  has  passed 
since  then,  scarcely  a  night  has  gone  by  without 
my  hearing  that  appeal  for  help  which  once  I  dis- 
regarded, which  now  I  can  never  reply  to.  I  fled 
from  the  valley,  in  a  vain  hope  of  leaving  that 
voice  behind  me.  I  came  here.  But  the  child's 
spirit  is  here  too.     It  is  forever  with  me." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  then  he  added,  "  I  can 
even  hear  it  now,  while  I  look  at  you,  while  I 
touch  your  hand." 

His  burning  eyes  were  fixed  on  Lily's  face. 
His  burning  hand  closed  on  hers  as  if  seeking  as- 
sistance. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  said,  and  for  the  first 
time  his  voice  broke  and  failed. 

"  Pray  !  "  she  whispered. 

"  I  have  prayed.     But  God  forgives  only  those 


THE   DEAD  CHILD.  211 

who  reverse  their  evil  acts.  Mine  can  never  be 
reversed.  I  can  never  be  kind  to  my  child  to 
whom  I  have  been  bitterly  cruel.  There  is  no 
help  for  me,  none.  Yet  I  had  a  feeling  that — 
that  you  might  help  me." 

"  If  I  could  !  "  the  girl  cried  with  a  blaze  of 
sudden  eagerness.  Her  heart  leaped  up  at  the 
words,  leaped  up  from  its  depth  of  pity  for  Mau- 
rice to  a  height  of  almost  fiery  enthusiasm. 

"  But  how  ?  "  he  said. 

Then  his  face  hardened  and  grew  stern. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  there  can  be  no  help  for  me, 
none  in  this  world." 

The  drawing-room  door  opened  and  the  Canon 
appeared. 

"  Miss  Bigelow  has  not  died  for  the  thirteenth 
tine,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  the  fire. 

When  the  Canon  kissed  his  daughter  that 
night,  after  Maurice  Dale  had  gone  home,  he 
seemed  struck  by  a  new  expression   in  her  face. 

"  Why,  how  excited  you  look,  child  !  "  he  said, 
"  what  is  it  ?  " 

But  Lily  returned  his  kiss  hastily  and  ran  away 
without  a  word.  Once  in  her  room  she  locked 
the  door — for  no  reason  except  that  she  must 
mark  the  night  by  some  unwonted  action — put 
on  her  dressing-gown  and  threw  herself  down  on 
her  bed.  Her  mind  was  alive  with  thoughts. 
Her  imagination  was  in  flames.  For  so  much  iiad 
come  upon  her  that  evening.  In  the  first  place 
she   understood   that   she    loved    Maurice.      She 


212  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

knew  that,  when  he  spoke  the  words,  "  My  child," 
and  jealousy  of  an  unknown  woman  struck  like 
some  sharp  weapon  to  her  heart.  She  realised 
that  he  did  not  love  her,  yet  so  great  was  her 
simple  unselfishness,  that  she  did  not  dwell  on  the 
knowledge,  or  blame  for  an  instant  the  selfishness 
which  concentrated  Maurice's  mind  so  entirely 
upon  himself  and  his  own  sorrow.  Her  only 
anxiety  was  how  to  help  him.  Her  only  feeling 
was  one  of  tender  pity  for  his  agony.  And  yet, 
for  Lily  was  a  girl  of  many  fancies  and  full  of  the 
wilful  side-thoughts  of  women,  she  found  room 
in  her  nature  for  a  highflown  sense  of  personal 
romance  which  now  wrapped  her  round  in  a  cer- 
tain luxury  of  complacency.  She  moved  in  a 
strange  story  that  was  true,  a  story  that  she  might 
have  read  with  a  quickening  of  the  pulses.  She 
and  Maurice,  Avhom  she  loved,  moved  in  it  to- 
gether heroine  and  hero  of  it.  And  none  knew 
the  story  but  themselves.  And  then  she  burst 
into  silent  tears,  calling  herself  cruel  for  having 
this  moment  of  half  joy  in  the  tragedy  of  another. 
She  pushed  down  into  the  depths  of  Maurice's 
misery.  And  then,  with  a  clearer  mind,  she  sat 
up  on  the  bed.  It  was  dead  of  night  now.  Was 
he  listening  in  the  silence  to  that  haunting  cry  that 
was  destroying  him  ?  She  wondered  breathlessly. 
And  she  recalled  the  conversation  about  "  The 
Bells."  Was  Mathias  truly  haunted?  or  was  he 
mad?  She  asked  herself  that,  putting  Maurice 
eventually  behind  footlights  in  his  place.     Was 


THE  DEAD  CHILD. 


213 


there  really  a  veritable  cry,  allowed  to  come  out 
of  the  other  world  to  Maurice  ?  or  did  his  diseased 
brain  work  out  his  retribution  ?  She  could  not 
tell.  Indeed  she  scarcely  cared  just  then.  In 
either  event,  the  result  upon  him  was  the  same 
and  was  terrible.  In  either  event,  the  outcome 
might  be  what  she  dared  not  name  even  to  herself. 
And,  though  he  did  not  love  her,  he  turned  to  her 
for  help.  Lily  flushed  in  the  thought  of  this. 
Almost  more  than  if  she  had  his  heart  it  seemed 
to  have  his  cry  for  assistance.  She  must  answer 
it  effectually.  She  must.  But  how  ?  And  then 
she  sprang  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  How 
to  help  him.  Slowly,  and  with  a  minute  exam- 
ination, she  went  in  memory  through  his  story, 
with  its  egoism,  its  cruelty,  its  ambition,  its  punish- 
ment, its  child-like  helplessness  of  to-night,  and  of 
many  nights.  She  recalled  each  word  that  he  had 
spoken  until  she  came  to  almost  the  last,  "  I  have 
prayed.  But  God  forgives  only  those  who  reverse 
their  evil  acts.  Mine  can  never  be  reversed.  I 
can  never  be  kind  to  my  child — "  Just  there 
she  stopped.  Maurice's  words  flew  against  what 
Lily's  religion  taught  her  of  the  Great  Being  who 
can  pardon  simply  and  fully  so  long  only  as  the 
sinner  entirely  and  deeply  repents.  But  she  ac- 
cepted them  as  true  for  Maurice.  There  was  the 
point  to  be  faced.  She  felt  that  his  nature,  haunt- 
ed indeed  or  betrayed  by  its  own  weakness,  but 
still  loved  by  her,  could  only  be  restored  to  peace 
if  he  could    fulfil   the   impossible,  reverse — as  he 


214  TONGUES  OF   CONSCIENCE. 

expressed  it — that  act  of  his  past.  Ah,  that  cry 
of  the  Httlc  dying,  helpless  child,  of  his  little 
child.  Lily  could  almost  hear  it  too,  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  How  could  she  still  it  ?  How 
could  she  lay  the  little  spirit  to  rest  forever? 
Peace  for  child,  peace  for  father,  sinned  against 
and  sinner — she  felt  she  would  gladly  sacrifice  her 
own  life,  her  own  peace,  to  work  the  miracle  of 
comfort  on  dead  and  living.  Yes,  she  could  give 
up  her  love, — if — .  Suddenly  Lily  threw  herself 
down  on  her  bed  and  buried  her  burning  face  deep 
in  the  pillows.  A  thought  had  come  to  her,  so 
strange  that  she  wondered  whether  it  were  not 
wicked.  The  hot  red  colour  surged  over  her  with 
this  thought,  and  all  the  woman  in  her  quivered 
as  she  asked  herself  whether,  in  this  life  of  sor- 
rows and  of  abnegations,  it  could  ever  be  that  the 
grief  and  the  terror  of  another  could  be  swept 
away  by  one  who,  in  the  endeavour  to  bring 
solace,  must  obtain  intense  personal  happiness. 
In  books  it  is  ever  self-sacrifice  that  purges  and 
persuades,  martyrdom  of  the  senses  that  renews 
and  relieves.  Lily  was  ready  indeed  to  be  a 
martyr  for  the  man  she  loved.  But  the  strange 
way  she  saw  of  being  his  possible  saviour  lay  only 
in  a  light  of  the  sun  forever  on  herself. 

She  wept  and  saw  the  light,  herself  and  Mau- 
rice walking  in  it  together,  till  the  church  bell 
chimed  in  the  morning,  and  the  tide  came  up  in 
the  sunshine  to  murmur  that  it  was  day. 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  21$ 

Maurice  Dale  was  puzzled.  He  noticed  a 
change  in  Lily  so  marked  that  even  his  self-cen- 
tred nature  could  not  fail  to  observe  it.  This  girl, 
whom  he  had  thought  pretty,  fanciful,  tender- 
hearted and  gently  sympathetic,  who  had  at- 
tracted his  confession  by  her  quick  and  feminine  re- 
ceptiveness,  now  seemed  developed  into  a  woman 
of  strength  and  purpose,  full  of  calm  and  of  dig- 
nity. Her  shining  eyes  were  more  steadfast  than 
of  old,  her  manner  was  less  changeful,  less  enthu- 
siastic, but  more  reliant.  Brayfield  wondered  what 
had  come  to  Miss  Alston.  Maurice  wondered  too, 
dating  the  transformation  accurately  from  the 
night  when  he  unburdened  his  soul  in  search  of 
the  help,  which,  after  all,  no  human  being  could 
give  to  him.  It  was  strange,  he  thought,  that  a 
man's  terror,  a  man's  weakness,  should  endow 
a  weak  girl  with  confidence  and  with  power.  It 
was  too  strange,  and  he  laughed  at  himself  for 
supposing  that  he  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
new  manifestation  of  Lily's  nature.  Neverthe- 
less she  began  to  attract  him  more  than  he  had 
believed  possible.  The  nightmare  in  which  his 
life  was  encircled  grew  less  real  when  he  was  with 
her.  There  was  virtue  in  her  that  went  out  to 
him.  He  came  to  desire  always  to  be  with  her 
and  yet  he  could  not  say  to  himself  that  beloved 
her  with  the  passion  of  man  for  woman.  Rather 
was  the  desire  that  he  felt  for  her  like  that  of  a 
criminal  towards  a  place  of  refuge,  of  a  coward 
towards   an    asylum   of  safety.       Sometimes   he 


2l6  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

longed  that  she  might  share  his  trouble,  selfishly 
longed  that  in  her  ears  might  ring  the  cry  of  pain 
that  tormented  his. 

One  day,  when  they  were  together  on  a  down 
that  overlooked  the  sea,  he  told  her  this. 

"  I  wish  it  too,"  she  answered  softly. 

"  You  are  all  unselfishness,  as  I  am  all  selfish- 
ness," he  said,  condemning  himself,  and  nearer  to 
loving  her  than  ever  before. 

The  sails  went  by  along  the  wintry  sea,  and  the 
short  afternoon  faded  quickly  into  a  twilight 
that  was  cold  in  its  beauty  like  a  pale  prim- 
rose in  frost.  They  were  descending  slowly 
towards  the  little  town  that  lay  beneath  them  in 
the  shadows. 

"  I  have  no  voice  to  trouble  my  life, — no  dead 
voice,  that  is,"  Lily  said. 

•'  No  dead  voice  ?  "  Maurice  asked.  "  And  the 
ivmg  ? 

"  Oh,  in  most  lives  there  is  some  one  voice 
that  means  almost  too  much,"  Lily  answered 
slowly. 

Maurice  stopped. 

"Whose  voice  means  so  much  to  you?"  he 
said. 

"Why  do  you  care  to  ask?" 

"  Is  it  mine  ?  " 

The  girl  had  stopped  too.  Her  face  was  set 
towards  the  sea  and  its  great  sincerity,  which 
murmurs  against  the  lies  and  the  deceptions  of 
many  lives  that  defile  the  land,  and  takes  so  many 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  217 

more  to  itself  that  they  may  persist  no  longer 
in  their  evil  doing.  And  perhaps  it  was  her  vis- 
ion of  the  sea  that  swept  from  Lily  any  desire 
to  be  a  coquette,  or  to  be  maidenly, — that  is, 
false.  She  looked  from  the  sea  into  Maurice's 
eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "  It  is  yours." 

"  You  love  me  then,  Lily  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  love  you,  Maurice." 

There  was  no  tremor  in  her  voice.  There  was 
no  shame  in  her  eyes.  Alone  in  her  chamber  on 
the  night  of  Maurice's  confession  she  had  flushed 
and  trembled.  Now  she  stood  before  him  and 
made  this  great  acknowledgment  simply  and  fear- 
lessly. And  yet  she  knew  that  he  did  not  love 
her  with  the  desire  of  man  to  the  woman  whom 
he  chooses  out  of  the  world  to  be  his  com- 
panion. She  was  moved  by  a  resolve  that  was 
very  great  to  ignore  all  that  girls  think  most  of 
at  such  a  moment.  Maurice  took  a  step  towards 
her.     How  true  and  how  strong  she  looked. 

"  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  share  my  life,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  too  shadowed,  too  sad.  I  have  not  the 
right." 

"  If  you  will  ask  me,  I  will  share  it." 

She  put  her  hand  into  his.  He  felt  as  if  her 
soul  lay  in  it.  They  walked  on.  Already  the 
evening  was  dark  around  ihcm. 

Canon  Alston  was  a  little  surprised,  merely  be- 
cause ho  was  a  father,  and  fathers  are  always  a 
little    surprised   when    men    love    their    children. 


2l8  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

But  he  liked  Maurice  heartily  and  gave  his  con- 
sent to  the  marriage.  Miss  Bigelovv  ordered  a 
valuable  wedding-present,  and  resolved  to  live  un- 
til over  the  marriage  day  at  least.  And  Brayfield 
gossiped  and  gloried  in  possessing  a  legitimate 
cause  for  excitement. 

As  for  Lily,  she  was  strangely  happy  with  a 
happiness  far  different  from  that  of  the  usual  be- 
trothed young  girl.  She  loved  Maurice  deeply. 
Nevertheless  she  did  not  blind  herself  to  the  fact 
that  he  Avas  still  unhappy,  restless,  self-engrossed 
and  often  terror-stricken,  although  he  tried  to 
appear  more  confident  than  of  old,  and  to  assume 
a  gaiety  suitable  to  his  situation  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  She  knew  he  could  never  be  entirely 
free  to  love  so  long  as  the  cry  of  the  child  rang 
in  his  ears.  And  he  told  her  that,  strangely 
enough,  since  their  engagement  it  had  become 
more  importunate.  Once  he  even  tried  to  break 
their  contract. 

"  I  cannot  link  my  life  with  another's,"  he  said 
desperately.  "  Who  knows — when  you  are  one 
with  me,  you  may  be  haunted  as  I  am.  That 
would  be  too  horrible." 

It  was  a  flash  of  real  and  heartfelt  unselfishness. 

Lily  felt  herself  thrill  with  gratitude.     But   she 

only  said  : 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

On  another  occasion — this  was  about  a  month 

after  they  became  engaged — Maurice  said  : 

"  Lily,  when  shall  we  be  married?  " 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  219 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  and  saw  that  he  was 
paler  even  than  usual,  and  that  his  face  looked 
drawn  with  fatigue. 

*'  Whenever  vou  wish,"  she  answered. 

"Let  it  be  soon,"  he  said.  And  then  he  broke 
out  almost  despairingly : 

"  I  cannot  bear  this  much  longer.  Lily,  what 
can  it  mean  ?  There  is  something  too  strange. 
Ever  since  you  and  I  have  been  betrothed  the 
curse  that  is  laid  upon  me  has  been  heavier,  the 
cry  of  the  child  has  been  more  incessantly  with 
me.  I  hear  it  more  plainly.  It  is  nearer  to  me. 
It  is  close  to  me.  In  the  night  sometimes  I  start 
up  thinking  the  child  is  even  beside  me  on  the 
pillow,  complaining  to  me  in  the  darkness.  I 
stretch  out  my  hand.  I  feel  for  its  little  body. 
But  there  is  nothing — nothing  but  that  cry  of 
fear,  of  pain,  of  eternal  reproach.  Why  does  the 
spirit  persecute  me  now  as  it  never  persecuted 
me  before?  Is  it  because  it  believes  that  you 
will  make  mc  happier  ?  Is  it  because  it  wishes  to 
deny  me  all  earthly  joy?  Sometimes  I  think 
that,  once  we  are  actually  husband  and  wife  the 
cry  will  die  away.  Sometimes  I  think  that  then 
it  will  never  leave  me  even  for  a  moment.  If 
that  were  so,  Lily,  I  should  die,  or  I  should  lose 
my  reason." 

He  covered  his  face  witli  his  hands.  He  was 
trembling.  Lily  put  her  soft  hand  against  his 
hands.  A  great  light  had  come  into  her  eyes  as 
he  spoke. 


220  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"  Let  us  be  married,  Maurice,"  she  said.  "  Per- 
haps the  little  child  wants  me." 

He  looked  up  at  her  and  his  dark  eyes  seemed 
to  pierce  her,  hungry  for  help. 

"  Wants  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  How  can  that  be  ? 
No,  no.  It  cries  against  my  thought  of  happi- 
ness, against  my  desire  for  peace." 

"  We  must  give  it  peace.  We  must  lay  it  to 
rest." 

"  No  one  can  do  that.  If  I  have  not  the  power 
to  redeem  my  deed  of  wickedness,  how  can  you, 
how  can  any  one  living  redeem  it  for  me?  " 

Lily  looked  away  from  him.  Her  cheeks  were 
burning  with  a  blush.  A  tingling  fire  seemed  to 
run  through  all  her  veins  and  her  pulses  beat. 

"  There  is  some  way  of  redemption  for  every 
one,"  she  said. 

But  he  answered  gloomily  : 

"  Your  religion  teaches  you  to  say  that,  Lily, 
perhaps  to  believe  it.  But  there  is  no  way.  The 
dead  cannot  return  to  earth  that  we  may  give 
them  tenderness  instead  of  our  former  cruelty. 
No— no  !  " 

"  Maurice — trust  me.  Let  us  be  married — 
soon." 

That  night,  before  she  went  to  bed,  Lily  knelt 
down  and  prayed  until  the  night  was  old.  She 
asked  what  thousands  of  women  have  asked  since 
the  world  was  young.  But  surely  never  woman 
before  had  so  strange  a  reason  for  her  request. 
And  when  at  length  she  rose  from  her  knees  she 


THE  DEAD  CHILD.  221 

felt  that  time  must  bring  the  gift  she  had  prayed 
for,  unselfishly,  and  with  her  whole  heart. 

A  month  afterwards,  on  a  bright  spring  morn- 
ing, Maurice  and  Lily  were  married.  It  was  a 
great  occasion  for  Brayfield.  The  church  was 
elaborately  decorated  by  the  many  young  ladies 
who  had  secretly  longed  to  be  the  brides  of  the 
interesting  doctor.  Crowds  assembled  within  and 
without  the  building.  Miss  Bigelow  rose  from 
her  fourteenth  death-bed  in  a  purple  satin  gown 
and  a  bonnet  prodigious  with  feathers  and  testi- 
fied to  the  possibility  of  modern  resurrection  in 
a  front  pew.  Flowers,  rice,  wedding  marches 
filled  the  air.  But  people  remarked  that  the 
bridegroom  looked  like  a  man  who  went  in  fear. 
Even  when  he  was  on  the  doorstep  of  the  church 
in  the  throng  of  curious  sightseers  he  moved  al- 
most as  one  whom  a  dream  attends,  who  sees  the 
pale  figures,  who  hears  the  faint  voices  that  in- 
habit and  make  musical  a  vision  of  the  night. 
The  bride  too,  had  no  radiant  air  of  a  young  girl 
fulfilling  her  girlish  destiny  and  giving  herself  up 
to  a  protector,  to  one  stronger,  more  able  to  fight 
the  world  than  a  woman  who  loves  and  fears. 
Her  face,  too,  was  pale  and  grave,  even — some 
thought — a  little  stern.  As  she  passed  up  the 
church  she  glanced  at  no  one,  smiled  at  no 
friend.  Ilcr  eyes  were  set  steadfastly  towards 
the  altar  where  Maurice  waited.  And  when, 
after  the  ceremony,  she  came  down  the  church 
to  the  sound  of  music  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  her 


222  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

husband.  She  took  no  heed  of  anyone  else,  for 
her  hand  pressed  upon  his  arm,  felt  that  he  was 
trembling.  And  her  ears  seemed  to  hear  through 
all  the  jubilant  music,  through  all  the  murmur  of 
the  gazing  crowd,  a  cry,  far  away,  yet  more  dis- 
tinct than  any  sound  of  earth,  thin,  piercing,  full 
of  appeal  to  her — the  spirit-cry  of  the  child. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILD. 

PART  II. 

THE   LIVING   CHILD. 


PART  II. 


THE  LIVING  CHILD. 

The   honeymoon    of    Lily    and    Maurice    was 

short,  and  many  would  have  called  it  sad,  could 

they    have    known    how    different    it    was    from 

the   marriage    holiday   of    most    young   couples. 

Maurice  had  looked  forward  to  the  wedding  as  a 

desperate  man  looks   forward  to  a  new  point  of 

departure  in  his  life.      He  had  fixed  all  his  hopes 

of    possible  peace  upon   it.      He  had  dated  new 

days  of  calm,  if  not  of  brightness,   from  it.     He 

had  sometimes  vaguely,   sometimes  desperately, 

looked  to  it  as  to  a  miracle  day,  on  which — how 

or  why  he  knew  not — the  shadow  would  be  lifted 

from  his  life.      The  man  who  is  doomed  to  death 

has  a  moment  of  acute  expectation  when  some 

new  doctor  places  him    under    a  fresh  mode    of 

treatment.     For  a  few  days  the  increased  vitality 

of  his  anxious  mind  sheds  a  dawn  of  apparent  life 

through  his  body.     But  the  mind  collapses.     The 

dawn  fades.     The  darkness  increases,  death  steals 

on.     So  it  was  with  Maurice.     Immediately  after 

the  wedding,  I.ily    noticed   that    he    fell    into    a 

strangely  watchful  condition  of  abstraction.     He 

225 


226  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

■was  full  of  tenderness  to  her,  full  of  cares  for  her 
comfort,  but  even  in  his  moments  of  obvious  solici- 
tude he  seemed  to  be  on  the  alert  to  catch  the 
stir  of  some  remote  activity,  or  to  be  listening  for 
the  sound  of  some  distant  voice.  His  own  fate 
engrossed  him  even  in  this  first  period  of  novel 
companionship  with  another  soul.  The  mono- 
mania of  the  haunted  man  gripped  him  and  would 
not  release  him.  He  thought  of  Lily,  but  he 
thought  more,  and  with  a  deeper  passion,  of  him- 
self. 

The  girl  divined  this,  but  she  did  not  for  an  in- 
stant rebel.  She  had  set  up  a  beautiful  unselfish- 
ness in  her  heart  and  had  consecrated  it.  Purpose 
does  much  for  a  woman,  helps  her  sometimes  to 
rise  higher  than  perhaps  man  can  ever  rise,  to  the 
pale  and  vacant  peaks  of  an  inactive  martyrdom. 
And  Lily  was  full  of  a  passion  of  purpose  known 
only  to  herself.  She  loved  Maurice  not  merely  as 
a  girl  loves  a  man,  but  also  as  the  protective  woman 
loves  the  being  dependent  upon  her.  His  secret 
was  hers,  but  hers  was  not  his.  She  had  her  beau- 
tiful loneliness  of  silent  hope,  and  that  sustained 
her. 

They  went  away  together.  In  the  train 
Maurice  said  to  her  suddenly,  with  a  sort  of  blaze 
of  hungry  eagerness : 

"  Lily — Lily — to-day  there  is  a  silence  for  me. 
Oh,  Lily,  if  you  have  brought  me  silence." 

He  seized  her  hand  and  his  was  hot  like  fire. 

"  Will  it  last — can  it  last?"  he  whispered. 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  227 

And  he  glanced  all  round  the  carriage  like  one 
anticipating  an  answer  to  his  question  from  some 
unknown  quarter,  then  he  said  : 

"  The  noise  of  the  train  is  so  loud,  perhaps — " 

"Hush!"  Lily  said.  "Don't  fight  your  own 
peace,  Maurice." 

"  Fight  it — no,  but  I  can  scarcely  believe  in  it. 
Lately  the — it  has  been  so  ceaseless,  so  poignant. 
Lily,  I  have  had  a  fancy  that  you  alone  could  be 
my  saviour.  If  it  is  so  !  Ah,  but  how  can  that 
be?" 

She  gave  him  a  strange  answer. 

"  Maurice,"  she  said,  "  it  may  base,  but  do  not 
despair  if  the  cry  comes  again." 

"  What  !  "  he  exclaimed  almost  fiercely,  "  you 
■ — do  you  hear  it  then  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  but  it  may  come." 

"  It  shall  not.     The  silence  is  so  beautiful." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her.  Tiie  tears  had 
sprung  into  his  eyes. 

"  How  weak  1  am,"  he  said,  with  a  fury  against 
his  own  condition,  "you  must  despise  me." 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  creeping  astonish- 
ment. 

"  I  wonder  why,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  How  can 
you  love  a  man  -vvho  has  been  so  miserable  that 
he  has  almost  ceased  to  be  a  man  ?  " 

"  1  love  even  your  misery.  Don't  think  me 
selfish,  Maurice.  I'ut  it  was  your  sorrow,  you 
see,  that  first  taught  you  to  think  of  me." 


228  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

He  leaned  from  her  suddenly  towards  the 
window  which  was  open  and  pulled  it  sharply  up. 

"  Why  do  you  do    that?"  Lily   said  quickly. 

"  One  hears  such  noises  in  the  air  when  one 
travels  at  this  speed,"  he  answered.  "  With  the 
window  down  one  might  fancy  anything.  I  must 
shut  out  fancy.  There  are  voices  in  the  wind 
that  passes,  in  the  rustling  woods  that  we  rush 
through.     I  won't  hear  them." 

The  train  sped  on. 

Their  destination  was  an  inland  village  set  in 
the  midst  of  a  rolling  purple  moor,  isolated  in  a 
heather-clad  gold  of  the  land,  distant  from  the 
sea,  distant  from  the  murmur  of  modern  life;  a 
sleepy,  self-contented  and  serene  abode  of  quiet 
women  and  ruminant  men,  living,  loving,  and 
dying  with  a  greater  calm  than  often  pervades 
our  modern  life.  A  lazy  divinity  seemed  to 
preside  over  the  place,  in  spring-time  at  least. 
Men  strolled  about  their  work  as  if  Time  waited 
on  them,  not  they  on  Time.  The  children — so 
Maurice  thought — played  more  drowsily  than  the 
children  of  towns.  The  youths  were  contem- 
plative. Even  the  girls  often  forgot  to  giggle  as 
they  thought  of  wedding  rings  and  Sunday  love- 
making.  Little  dogs  lay  blinking  before  the  low- 
browed doors  of  the  cottages,  and  cats  reposed 
upon  the  garden  walls  round-eyed  in  sober 
dreams.  If  Maurice  sought  a  home  of  silence 
surely  he  had  it  here.  Lily  and  he  put  up  at  a 
small  inn  on  the  skirt  of  the  village  and  facing 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  229 

the  rippling  emptiness  of  the  moor.  Before  going 
to  bed  they  stepped  out  into  the  night  and  the 
wide  air.  Stars  were  bright  in  the  sky.  Cottage 
lights  twinkled  here  and  there  behind  them  in 
the  village.  They  heard  a  stream  running  away 
into  the  heart  of  the  long  solitude  that  lay  beyond 
them.  Lily  was  very  quiet.  Her  heart  was  full. 
Thoughts,  strange  and  beautiful,  overflowed  in 
her  mind.  She  felt  just  then  how  much  bigger 
the  human  soul  is  than  the  human  body,  how 
much  stronger  the  prisoner  is  than  the  prison  in 
which  nevertheless  it  is  dedicated  to  dwell  for  a 
time.  Her  hand  just  touched  the  arm  of  Maurice 
as  she  looked  across  the  soft  darkness  of  the  moor. 
He,  too,  felt  curiously  happy  and  safe.  Taking 
off  his  cap  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  hair. 

"  Lily,"  he  said,  "  peace  is  here  for  me,  in 
this  place  with  you.  My  brain  has  been  playing 
me  tricks  because  I  have  been  so  much  alone,  the 
devil  dwells  in  a  man's  loneliness.  Listen  to  the 
silence  of  these  moors.     What  a  music  it  is  !  " 

The  lights  in  the  cottages  were  extinguished 
one  by  one,  as  bed  claimed  their  owners.  But 
Maurice  and  Lily,  sitting  on  the  dry  fringe  of 
the  heather,  remained  out  under  the  stars.  Her 
liand  lay  in  his  and  suddenly  she  felt  his  quiver. 

"  What  is  it,  Maurice  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  got  up  and  made  a  step  forward. 

"  Lily,"  he  said,  "  there  is — there  must  be 
someone  near  us,  a  child  lost  on  the  moor,  or 
forgotten  by  its  mother.     I  hear  it  crying  close  to 


230  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

US.  Say  you  hear  it  too.  No,  no,  it  is  not  the 
old  sound.  Don't  think  that.  It  can't  be. 
There's  a  natural  explanation  of  this — I'll  swear 
there  is.     Come  with  me." 

He  pulled  her  hastily  up  and  pressed  forward 
some  steps,  stumbling  among  the  bushes.  Then 
he  stopped,  listening. 

"  It  is  somewhere  just  here,  by  us,"  he  said. 
"  I  must  see.  Wait  a  moment.  I'll  strike  a 
light." 

He  drew  out  his  match-box  and  struck  a  match, 
protecting  the  tiny  flame  between  his  hands. 
Then  he  bent  down,  searching  the  uneven  ground 
at  their  feet.     The  flame  went  out. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  lantern,"  he  muttered. 

"  Maurice,"  Lily  said,  "  let  us   go  back  to  the 

•  » » 

mn. 

"  What !  and  leave  this  child  out  here  in  the 
night.     I   tell  you   there  is  a  child  crying  near 

9* 

us. 

He  spoke  almost  angrily. 

"Let  us  go  back,  Maurice." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  uncertain. 

"  You  think — "  he  began,  then  he  stopped.  She 
took  his  hand  and  led  him  towards  the  village  in 
silence.  As  they  reached  the  inn  door,  the  faint 
light  from  the  coffee-room  encircled  them. 
Maurice  was  white  to  the  lips.  He  looked  at 
Lily  without  speaking,  and  he  was  trembling. 

"  Wasn't  there  anything  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  Is 
it  here  too  ?     Can't  you  keep  it  away  ?  " 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  23  I 

Lily  said  nothing.  She  opened  the  inn  door. 
Maurice  stepped  into  the  passage,  heavily,  almost 
like  a  drunken  man.  And  this  was  the  first  night 
of  their  honeymoon. 

The  incident  of  the  moor  threw    Maurice  back 
into  the  old  misery  from  which  he  had    emerged 
for  a  brief  moment,  and,  indeed,  plunged  him  into 
an  abyss  of  despair  such  as  he  had   never   known 
before.     For  now  he  had  sincerely  hoped  for  sal- 
vation, and  his  hope  had  been  frustrated.      He  had 
clung  to  a  belief  that  Lily's    love,  Lily's  compan- 
ionship might  avail  to  rescue  him  from  the  phan- 
tom, or  the  reality,  that  was  destroying  his  power, 
shattering  his  manhood.     The  belief  was  dashed 
from  him,  and  he  sank  deeper  in  the  sea  of  terror. 
They  stayed  on  for  awhile  in  this  Sleepy  Hollow, 
but  Maurice  no  longer  felt  its  peace.     Remote  as 
it  was,  cloistered   in   the  rolling  moors,  the  cry  of 
the   child   penetrated   to   it,    making  it  the  very 
centre,  the  very  core   of  all  things    hideous  and 
terrible.     Even  the  silence  of  the  village,  its  aloof- 
ness from  the  world,  became  hateful  to    Maurice. 
I-'or  they  seemed  to  emphasise  and  to  concentrate 
the  voice  that  pierced  more  keenly  in  silence,  that 
sounded  more  horrible  in  solitude. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here,"  he  said  to  Lily.  "IaI  us 
go  back.  I  will  take  up  my  work  again.  I  will 
try  to  throw  myself  into  it  as  I  did  when  I  was  a 
student.  I  shut  out  the  living  cry  then,  I  will 
shut  out  the  dead  cry  now.  I'^or  you — you  cannot 
help  me." 


232  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

He  looked  at  her  while  he  spoke  almost  con- 
temptuously, almost  as  one  looks  at  some  woman 
whose  courage  or  whose  faith  one  has  tried  and 
found  wanting. 

"You  cannot  help  me,"  he  repeated. 

Secretly  he  felt  a  cruel  desire  to  sting  Lily  into 
passion,  to  rouse  her  to  some  demonstration  of 
anger  against  his  cowardice  in  thus  taunting  her 
love  and  devotion.  But  she  said  nothing,  only 
looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  had  become  strangely 
steadfast,  and  full  of  the  quiet  light  of  a  great 
calm  and  patience. 

"  D'  you  say  nothing  ?  "  he  said. 

"  If  you  wish  to  go,  Maurice,  let  us  go." 

He  had  got  up  and  was  standing  by  the  low 
window  that  looked  across  the  moor. 

"  Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  going 
mad  in  this  place?  And  you  do  nothing.  Why 
did  I  ever  think  that  you  could  help  me  ?  " 

"  Try  to  think  so  still." 

She,  too,  got  up,  followed  him  to  the  window 
and  put  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

**  Perhaps  the  time  has  not  come  yet,"  she  said. 

Suddenly  he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  pushed 
her  a  little  way  from  him,  so  that  he  could  look 
clearly  into  her  face. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  can  you  mean  ?  " 
he  said.  "  Sometimes  I  think  you  have  some 
secret  that  you  keep  from  me,  some  purpose  that 
I  know  nothing  of.  You  look  as  if — as  if  you  were 
waiting  for  something ;  were  expectant ;   I   don't 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  233 

know — "  he  broke  off,  "  After  all  what  does  it 
matter  ?  Only  let  us  go  from  here.  Let  us  get 
home.  I  hate  that  stretch  of  moorland.  At 
night  it  is  full  of  bewailing  and  misery." 

He  shuddered  although  the  warm  spring  sun- 
shine was  pouring  in  at  the  window.  Then  he 
turned  and  left  the  room  without  another  word. 
Lily  stood  still  for  a  moment,  with  her  eyes  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  door.  Iler  cheeks  burned 
with  a  slight  blush  and  her  lips  were  half  opened. 

"If  he  only  knew  what  I  am  waiting  for  !  "  she 
murmured  to  herself.     "  Will  it  ever  come?  " 

She  sank  down  on  the  broad,  old-fashioned 
window  seat,  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  the 
leaded  panes  of  glass.  The  bees  were  humming 
outside.  She  listened  to  their  music.  It  was  dull 
and  dreamy,  heavy  like  a  golden  noon  in  summer 
time.  And  then  the  white  lids  fell  over  her  eyes, 
and  the  hum  of  the  bees  faded  from  her  cars,  and 
she  heard  another  music  that  made  her  woman's 
heart  leap  up,  she  heard  the  first  tiny  murmur 
of  a  new-born  child. 

It  was  sweeter  than  the  hum  of  bees.  It  was 
sweeter  than  the  soul  the  lute  gave  up  to  the  cars 
of  Nature  when  Orpheus  touched  the  strings.  It 
was  so  sweet  that  tears  came  stealing  from  under 
Lily's  eyelids  and  dropped  down  upon  her  clasped 
hands.  She  sat  there  motionless  till  the  twilight 
came  over  the  moor,  and  Maurice  entered,  wiiitc 
and  weary,  to  ask  impatiently  i>{  what  she  was 
dreaming. 


234  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

As  Maurice  wished  it,  they  returned  the  next 
day  to  Brayfield  and  settled  into  the  house 
that  was  to  be  their  home.  It  stood  on  a 
low  cliff  overlooking  the  sea;  a  broad  green 
lawn,  on  which  during  the  season  a  band  played 
and  people  promenaded,  lay  in  front  of  it. 
Beyond,  the  waves  danced  in  the  sunshine.  The 
situation  of  the  house  was  almost  absurdly  cheer- 
ful, and  the  house  itself  was  new  and  prettily 
furnished.  But  the  life  into  which  Lily  entered 
was  strangely  at  variance  with  the  surroundings, 
strangely  antagonistic  to  the  brightness  of  the  sea, 
the  sweetness  of  the  air,  the  holiday  gaiety  that 
pervaded  the  little  town  in  the  summer.  For  work 
did  not  abolish,  did  not  even  lull  the  sound  of 
the  voice  that  pursued  Maurice  with  an  inexora- 
ble persistence.  It  was  obvious  that  on  his  return 
home  after  the  honeymoon,  he  made  a  tremen- 
dous effort  to  get  the  better  of  his  enemy.  He 
called  up  all  his  manhood,  all  his  strength  of 
character.  He  refused  to  hear  the  voice.  When  it 
cried  in  his  ears,  he  went  to  sit  with  Lily,  and 
plunged  into  conversation  on  subjects  that  inter- 
ested them  both.  He  made  her  play  to  him,  or 
sing  to  him  in  the  twilight.  He  read  aloud  to  her. 
This  was  at  night.  By  day  he  worked  unremit- 
tingly. When  he  was  not  driving  to  see  patients 
he  laboured  to  increase  his  knowledge  of  medicine. 
He  pursued  the  most  subtle  investigations  into 
the  causes  of  obscure  diseases,  and  specially 
directed  his    inquiries  towards  the  pathology  of 


THE    LIVING   CHILD.  235 

the  brain.  He  analysed  the  multitudinous  devel- 
opments  of  madness  and  traced  them  back  to  their 
beginnings;  and  when,  as  was  often  the  case,  he 
discovered  that  the  mad  man  or  woman  whose  mal- 
ady was  laid  bare  to  him  had  inherited  this  curse  of 
humanity,  he  smiled  with  a  momentary  thrill  of 
joy.  His  ancestors  on  both  sides  of  the  family 
had  been  sane.  Yet  one  of  the  commonest,  most 
invariable  delusions  of  the  insane  was  the  imagi- 
nary idea  that  they  were  pursued  by  voices,  order- 
ing them  to  do  this  or  that,  suggesting  crimes  to 
them  or  weeping  in  their  ears  over  some  tragedy 
of  the  past.  Maurice  knew  that  the  mind  which 
does  not  inherit  a  legacy  of  insanity  may  yet  be 
overturned  by  some  terrible  incident,  by  a  great 
shock,  or  by  an  unexpected  bereavement.  But 
surely  such  a  mind  would  be  aware  of  its  trans- 
formation, even  as  a  man  who,  from  an  accident, 
becomes  disfigured  is  aware  of  the  alteration  of 
his  face  from  beauty  to  desolation.  Maurice  was 
not  aware  that  his  mind  had  been  transformed, 
Deliberately,  calmly,  he  asked  himself,  "  Am  I 
insane?"  Deliberately,  calmly,  his  soul  answered, 
"  No."  Yet  the  cry  of  the  child  rang  in  his  cars, 
pursued  his  goings  out  and  comings  in,  filled  his 
days  with  lamentation,  and  his  nights  with  horror. 
Then,  leaving  the  subject  of  madness,  Maurice 
began  to  institute  a  close  investigation  into  the 
subject  of  alleged  hauntings  of  human  beings 
by  ai)i)aritions  and  by  sounds.  He  read  of 
the  actress,  whose  lover,  who  had  slain  himself 
in    despair    at    her    cruelty,    remained    for    ever 


236  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

with  her,  manifesting  his  presence,  although  in- 
visible, by  cries,  curses,  and  clappings  of  the 
hands.  He  read  of  the  clergyman  who-  was 
haunted  by  the  footsteps  of  his  murdered  sweet- 
heart, which  even  ascended  the  pulpit  stairs  be- 
hind him,  and  pattered  furtively  about  him  when 
he  knelt  to  pray  for  pardon  of  his  sin.  He  filled 
his  mind  with  visionary  terrors,  but  they  seemed 
remote  or  even  ridiculous  to  him,  and  he  said  to 
himself  that  they  were  the  clever  inventions  of 
imaginative  people.  They  were  worked  up. 
They  were  moulded  into  conventional  stories. 
They  pleased  the  magazines  of  their  time.  He 
alone  was  really  haunted  of  all  men  in  the  world, 
so  far  as  he  knew.  And  then  a  great  and  greedy 
desire  came  upon  him  to  meet  some  other  man 
in  a  like  case,  to  hear  from  live  lips  the  true  and 
undecorated  history  of  a  despair  like  his  own, 
one  of  those  bald  and  terse  narratives  which 
pierce  the  imagination  of  the  hearer  like  a  sword, 
with  no  tinselled  scabbard  of  exaggeration  and 
of  lies.  He  wondered  whether  upon  the  earth  a 
man  walked  in  a  darkness  similar  to  that  which 
fell  round  him  like  a  veil.  He  wondered  whether 
he  was  unique,  even  as  he  felt.  Sometimes  he 
caught  himself  looking  furtively  at  a  harmless 
stranger,  a  bright  girl  tanned  by  the  sea,  or  a  lad 
just  back  from  a  fishing  excursion  to  Raynor's 
Bay,  and  saying  to  himself  low  and  drearily : 
"  Does  any  spirit  trouble  you,  I  wonder?  Does 
any  spirit  cry  to  you  in  the  night?"     But  neither 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  237 

his  work,  his  excursions  of  the  imagination,  nor 
the  presence  of  Lily  in  his  house,  availed  to 
cleanse  the  Hfe  of  Maurice  from  the  stain  of 
sound,  that  ever  widened  and  spread  upon  it. 
He  fought  for  freedom  for  a  while,  strenuously, 
with  all  his  heart  and  soul.  But  the  lost  battle 
left  him  with  his  energies  exhausted,  his  courage 
broken.     One  night  he  said  to  Lily: 

"  Do  you  know  all  I  have  been  doing  since  we 
came  back  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Maurice,  I  know." 

"  And  that  it  has  all  been  in  vain,"  he  said, 
with  a  passion  of  bitterness  that  he  could  not  try 
to  conceal. 

"  That  too  I  understand,  Maurice — I  knew  it 
would  be  in  vain." 

He  looked  at  her  almost  as  at  an  enemy,  for 
his  heart  was  so  full  of  misery,  his  mind  was  so 
worn  with  weariness,  that  he  began  to  lose  the 
true  appreciation  of  human  relations,  and  to  con- 
fuse the  beauty  near  him  with  the  ugliness  that 
companioned  him  so  closely. 

"You  knew  it?  What  do  you  mean?"  he  said. 
"  How  could  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  felt  it,  Maurice  ;  do  not  try  any  longer  to 
work  out  alone  your  own  redemption." 

"  You  can  say  that  to  mc  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  I  believe  that  it  is  useless — you  will 
fail." 

He  set  his  lips  together  and  said  nothing.  But 
a  frown  distorted  his  face  slowly. 


238  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Leave  your  redemption  to  God.  Oh,  Maurice, 
leave  it,"  Lily  said,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  If  this  cry  of  the  dead  child  is  his  pun- 
ishment to  you  it  must — it  will — endure  so  long 
as  he  pleases.  Your  efforts  cannot  still  it  now. 
You  yourself  told  me  so  once." 

"  I  told  you?" 

"  Yes — for  the  dead  are  beyond  our  hands  and 
our  lips.  We  cannot  clasp  them.  We  cannot 
kiss  them.     We  cannot  speak  to  them." 

"  But  they  can  speak  to  us  and  mock  us. 
You  are  right.  I  can't  still  the  cry — I  can't ! 
Then  it's  all  over  with  me  !  " 

Suddenly,  with  a  sob,  Maurice  flung  himself 
down.  He  felt  as  if  something  within  him 
snapped,  and  as  if  straightway  a  dissolution  of 
all  the  man  in  him  succeeded  this  rupture  of  the 
spirit.  Careless  of  the  pride  of  man,  before  the 
world  and  even  in  his  own  home,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  a  despair  that  was  too  weak  to  be  frantic, 
too  complete  to  be  angry  ;  a  despair  that  no  longer 
strove  but  yielded,  that  lay  down  in  the  dust  and 
wept.  Then,  presently,  raising  his  head  and  see- 
ing Lily,  in  whose  eyes  were  tears  of  pity, 
Maurice  was  seized  with  an  enmity  against  her, 
unreasonably  wicked,  but  suddenly  so  vehement 
that  he  did  not  try  to  resist  it. 

"You  have  broken  me,"  he  said.  "You  have 
told  me  that  there  is  no  redemption,  that  I  am 
in  the  hands  of  God,  who  persecutes  me.  You 
have  told  me  the  truth  and  made  me  hate  you." 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  239 

"Maurice!" 

The  cry  came  from  her  lips  faintly,  but  there 
was  the  ring  of  anguish  in  it. 

"  It  is  so,"  he  repeated  doggedly.  "  And,  in- 
deed, I  believe  that  you  have  added  to  the  weight 
of  my  burden.  Since  we  have  been  married  the 
persecution  has  increased.  Once,  when  I  was 
alone,  I  could  bear  it.  Now  you  are  here  I  can- 
not bear  it.  The  child  hates  you.  When  you  are 
near — in  the  night — its  cry  is  so  intense  that  I 
wonder  you  can  sleep.  Yet  I  hear  your  quiet 
breathing.  You  say  you  love  me.  Then  why 
are  you  so  calm?  Why  do  you  tell  me  to  trust? 
Why  do  you  hint  that  I  may  yet  find  peace,  and 
then  tell  me  to  cease  from  working  for  my  own 
peace?  You  don't  love  me,  you  laugh  at  my 
trouble.     You  despise  mc." 

He  burst  out  of  the  room  almost  like  a  man 
demented. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  Lily,  who  loved  him, 
would  have  been  overwhelmed  by  this  ecstasy 
of  anger  against  her.  But  there  was  something 
that  sheathed  her  heart  from  death.  She  might 
be  wounded,  she  might  suffer  ;  but  .she  looked  be- 
yond the  present  time,  over  the  desert  of  her 
fate  to  roses  of  a  future  that  Maurice,  in  his  mis- 
ery, could  not  see,  in  his  self-engrossment  could 
not  divine.  There  is  no  living  thing  that  un- 
derstands how  to  wait,  that  can  feci  the  beauty 
of  jjaticnce,  as  a  woman  understands  and  feels. 
The  curious  depth    of    calm   in    Lily   which    ini- 


240  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

tated  Maurice  was  created  by  a  faith,  half  relig- 
ious, half  unreasoning,  wholly  strong  and  de- 
termined, such  as  no  man  ever  knows  in  quite  the 
same  fulness  as  a  woman.  It  is  such  a  perfec- 
tion of  faith  which  gilds  the  silences  in  which  the 
souls  of  many  women  wait,  surrounded  by  the 
clouds  of  apparently  shattered  lives,  but  conscious 
that  there  is  a  great  outcome,  obscure  and  re- 
mote, but  certain  as  the  purpose  which  beats  for 
ever  in  Creation. 

From  that  day  Maurice  no  longer  kept  up  a 
pretense  of  energy,  or  a  simulation  of  even  tol- 
erable happiness  in  his  home.  The  idea  that  the 
spirit  of  the  dead  child  was  stirred  to  an  intense 
disquietude  by  his  connection  with  Lily,  and  that, 
consequently,  his  marriage  had  deepened  his  pun- 
ishment, grew  in  him  until  at  length  it  became 
fixed.  He  brooded  over  it  for  hours  together,  his 
ears  full  of  that  eternal  complaining.  He  began 
to  feel  that  by  linking  himself  with  Lily  he  had 
added  to  his  original  sin,  that  his  wedding  had 
been  a  ceremony  almost  criminal,  and  that  if  he 
had  scourged  himself  by  living  ascetically,  and  by 
putting  rigorously  away  from  him  all  earthly  hap- 
piness, he  might  at  last  have  laid  the  child  to  rest 
and  found  peace  and  forgiveness  himself.  And 
this  fixed  idea  led  him  to  shut  Lily  entirely  out 
from  his  heart.  He  looked  upon  the  fate  of  her 
being  with  htm  in  the  house  as  irrevocable.  But 
he  resolved  that  he  ought  to  disassociate  himself 
from  her  as  far  as  possible,  and,  without  explaining 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  24I 

further  to  her  the  thought  that  now  possessed 
him,  he  ceased  to  sit  with  her,  ceased  to  walk  out 
with  her. 

After  dinner  at  night  he  retired  to  his  study 
leaving  her  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  He  let 
lier  go  up  to  bed  without  bidding  her  good-night. 
When  he  was  obliged  to  be  with  her  at  meals 
he  maintained  for  the  most  part  an  obstinate 
silence. 

Yet  the  cry  of  the  child  grew  louder.  The 
spirit  of  the  child  was  not  mollified.  Its  perse- 
cution continued  and  seemed  to  him  to  grow 
more  persistent  with  each  passing  day. 

What  else  could  he  do  ?  How  could  he  sepa- 
rate himself  more  completely  from  Lily? 

Canon  Alston  came  one  day  to  solve  this  prob- 
lem for  him.  The  Canon  had  resolved  on  taking 
a  holiday,  and  being  no  lover  of  solitude  in  his 
pleasures,  he  wished  to  persuade  Maurice  to  be- 
come a  grass  widower  for  three  weeks. 

"Can  you  let  Lily  go?"  he  said.  "I  know  it 
is  a  shame  to  leave  you  alone,  but — " 

He  stopped,  surprised  at  the  sudden  brightness 
that  had  come  into  Maurice's  usually  pale  and 
grave  face.  Maurice  saw  his  astonishment  and 
hastened  to  allay  it. 

"I  sliali  miss  Lily  of  course,"  he  began.  "Still, 
if  you  want  her,  and  she  is  anxious  to  go — " 

"  I  have  not  mentioned  it  to  her,"  the  Canon 
said. 

And  at  this  moment  Lily  came  into  the  room. 


242  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

The  project  was  laid  before  her.  She  hesitated, 
looking  from  her  father  to  her  husband.  Her 
perplexity  seemed  to  both  the  men  curiously 
acute,  even  to  Maurice  who  was  on  fire  to  hear 
her  decision.  The  prospect  of  solitude  was  sweet 
to  his  tormented  heart  now  that  he  was  possessed 
by  the  fancy  that  Lily's  presence  intensified  his 
martyrdom.  Yet  Lily's  obvious  disturbance  of 
mind  surprised  him.  The  two  courses  open  to 
her  were  really  so  simple  that  there  seemed  no 
possible  reason  why  she  should  look  upon  the 
taking  of  one  of  them  as  a  momentous  matter. 

"  Well,  Lily,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  the  Canon 
asked,  after  a  pause.  "  Will  you  come  with 
me?" 

"  But  Maurice—" 

"  Maurice  permits  it,  and  I  want  you." 

"  I — I  had  not  meant  to  leave  home  at  present, 
father,  not  till  after — " 

She  stopped  abruptly. 

"Till  after  what,  my  dear?"  inquired  the 
Canon. 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Lily,"  Maurice  said,  trying  to  make  his  voice 
cool  and  indifferent,  "  I  think  you  ought  to  go. 
It  will  do  you  good.  Do  not  mind  me.  I  shall 
manage  very  well  for  a  little  while." 

'*  You  would  rather  I  went,  Maurice?  " 

"  I  think  we  ought  not  to  let  your  father  go  on 
his  holiday  alone." 

*'  I  will  go,"  she  said  quietly. 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  243 

So  it  was  arranged.  The  Canon  was  jubilant 
at  the  prospect  of  his  daughter's  company,  and 
asked  her  where  they  should  travel. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  the  English  Lakes,  Lily  ?  " 
he  asked,  "they  are  lovely  at  this  time  of  year, 
and  the  rush  of  the  tourist  season  has  scarcely 
begun.     Shall  we  go  there  ?  " 

"  Wherever  you  like,  father,"  she  said. 

The  Canon  was  feeling  too  gay  to  notice  the 
preoccupation  of  her  manner,  the  ungirlish  gravity 
of  her  voice.  That  day,  in  the  evening,  when  she 
was  at  dinner  with  Maurice,  Lily  said  : 

"You  lived  near  the  Lakes  once,  didn't  you, 
Maurice  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  the  valley  ?  " 

He  told  her. 

"And  the  house?  " 

"  End  Cottage.  It  was  close  to  the  waterfall, 
I  hate  it,"  he  added  almost  fiercely.  "  It  was 
there  that  I  first  heard — but  I  have  told  you." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  and  sent  away  the  food 
on  his  plate  untasted.  Lily  glanced  across  at  him. 
liut  she  said  nothing  more.  And  Maurice  was 
struck  by  the  consciousness  that  she  took  his 
strangeness  strangely,  with  a  lack  of  curiosity,  a 
lack  of  protestation  unlike  a  woman  ;  almost  for 
the  first  time  since  they  were  married  he  was 
moved  to  wonder  how  much  she  loved  him,  indeed 
whether  she  still  loved  him  at  all.  He  had  got 
up  from  the  dinner  table  and  stood  with  one  hand 


244  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

leaning  upon  it  as  he  looked  steadily,  with  his 
heavy  and  hunted  eyes,  across  at  Lily.  . 

"Are  you  glad  to  go  with  the  Canon?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  go,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  You  don't  mind  leaving  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  wish  me  to  leave  you — " 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  he  said,  watching  her  to  see  if 
she  winced  at  the  words. 

But  her  face  was  still  and  calm. 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  Then  it  is  better  for  me  to  go  for  a  little  while 
than  to  stay." 

"  For  a  little  while,"  he  repeated,  "yes." 

He  turned  and  went  slowly  out  of  the  room, 
and  suddenly  his  face  was  distorted.  For,  in  the 
darkness  of  the  hall,  he  heard  the  child  crying  and 
lamenting.  He  stopped  and  listened  to  it  like  a 
man  who  resolutely  faces  his  destruction.  And, 
as  so  many  times,  he  asked  himself  :  "  Is  this  a 
freak  of  my  imagination,  a  trick  of  my  nerves  ?  " 
No,  the  sound  was  surely  real,  was  close  to  him. 
It  thrilled  in  his  ears  keenly.  He  could  not  doubt 
its  reality.  Yet  he  acknowledged  to  himself  that 
he  could  not  actually  locate  it.  Only  in  that  re- 
spect did  it  differ  from  other  sounds  of  earth.  As 
he  stood  in  the  half  darkness,  listening,  a  horror, 
greater  than  he  had  ever  felt  before,  came  over 
him.  The  cry  seemed  to  him  menacing,  no  longer 
merely  a  cry  for  sympathy,  for  assistance,  no 
longer  merely  the   cry   of  a  helpless  creature  in 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  245 

pain.  He  turned  white  and  sick,  and  clapped 
his  two  hands  to  his  ears.  And  just  as  he  did  so 
the  dining-room  door  opened  and  Lily  came  out, 
a  thin  stream  of  light  following  her  and  falling 
upon  Maurice.  He  started  at  the  vision  of  her 
and  at  the  revealing  illumination.  His  nerves 
were  quivering.  His  whole  body  seemed  to  vi- 
brate. 

"  Don't  come  near  me,"  he  cried  out  to  Lily. 
"  It  is  worse  since  you  are  with  me.  Your  pres- 
ence makes  my  danger.     Ah  !  " 

And  with  a  cry  he  dashed  into  his  study,  bang- 
ing the  door  behind  him,  as  if  he  fled  from  her. 

A  few  days  later  Maurice  stood  at  the  garden 
gate  and  helped  Lily  into  the  carriage  that  was  to 
take  her  to  the  station.  A  summons  to  a  patient 
prevented  him  from  seeing  her  and  the  Canon  off 
on  their  journey  northwards.  Just  before  Lily 
put  her  foot  on  the  step  she  stopped  and  wavered. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  she  said. 

She  ran  back  into  the  little  house  which  had 
been  her  home  since  she  was  married.  Maurice 
supposed  that  she  had  forgotten  something.  But 
she  only  peeped  into  her  bedroom,  into  the  gay 
drawing-room,  into  Maurice's  den.  And  as  she 
looked  at  this  last  little  chamber,  at  the  books,  the 
ruffled  writing-table,  the  pipes  ranged  against  the 
wall,  her  photograph  .standing  in  a  silver  frame 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  there  was  a  stricken  feeling  at  her  heart. 


246  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Lily,  you  \\  ill  miss  the  train,"  Maurice  called 
to  her. 

She  hurried  out,  got  into  the  carriage  and  was 
driven  away,  wondering  why  she  had  gone  back 
to  take  a  last  glance  at  her  home,  why  she  had 
scarcely  been  able  to  see  it  for  her  tears. 

That  evening  Maurice  returned  from  his  round 
of  visits  in  a  curious  state  of  excitement  and  of 
anticipation,  mingled  with  nervous  dread.  lie  felt 
as  if  the  eyes  of  the  dead  child  were  upon  all  his 
doings,  as  if  the  mind  of  the  dead  child  pondered 
every  act  of  his,  as  if  the  brain  of  the  dead  child 
were  busy  about  his  life,  as  if  the  soul  of  the  dead 
child  concerned  itself  for  ever  with  his  soul,  which 
it  had  secretly  dedicated  to  a  loneliness  assured 
now  by  the  departure  of  Lily.  By  living  alone, 
even  for  a  few  weeks,  was  he  not  in  a  measure 
obeying  the  desire  of  the  little  spirit,  which  pos- 
sessed his  fate  like  some  inexorable  Providence? 
If  so,  dare  he  not  hope  for  an  interval  of  peace, 
for  that  stillness  after  which  he  longed  with  an 
anxiety  that  was  like  a  physical  pain  ? 

He  entered  his  house.  Twilight  was  falling, 
and  the  hall,  in  which  on  the  previous  night  the 
child  had  complained  in  so  grievous  a  manner, 
was  shadowy.  He  stood  there  and  listened.  He 
heard  the  distant  wash  of  the  sea,  the  voices  of 
two  servants  talking  together  behind  the  swing 
door  that  led  to  the  kitchen.  No  sound  mingled 
with  the  sea,  or  with  the  chattering  voices. 
Slowly  he    ascended  the  stairs  and    entered   the 


THE  LIVING  CHILD. 


247 


bedroom,  in  which  Lily  had  slept  quietly,  while 
he,  by  her  side,  endured  the  persecution  of  the 
child.  The  blinds  were  up.  The  dying  day- 
light crept  slowly  from  the  room,  making  an 
exit  as  furtive  and  suppressed  as  that  of  one 
who  steals  from  a  death  chamber.  Maurice  sat 
down  upon  the  bed  and  again  listened  for  a  long 
time. 

He  was  conscious  of  the  sense  of  relief  which 
comes  upon  a  man  who,  through  some  sudden 
act,  has  removed  from  his  shoulders  a  terrible 
burden.  He  took  this  present  silence  to  himself 
as  a  reward.  But  would  it  last  ?  Opening  the 
window  he  leaned  out  to  hear  the  sea  more  plainly. 
All  living  voices,  whether  of  Nature  or  of  man, 
were  beautiful  to  him,  they  had  come  to  make  his 
silence. 

A  servant  knocked  at  the  door.  Maurice  went 
down  to  dine.  He  passed  the  late  evening  as 
usual  in  his  study.  He  slept  calmly.  He  woke 
— to  silence.  Did  not  this  silence  confirm  his 
fixed  idea  that  his  marriage  with  Lily  had  vexed 
that  wakeful  spirit,  had  troubled  that  unquiet  soul 
of  the  child?  Maurice,  wrapped  in  a  beautiful 
peace,  felt  that  it  did.  And,  as  the  silent  lovely 
days,  the  silent  lovely  nights  passed  on  he  came 
gradually  to  a  fixed  resolve. 

Lily  must  not  return  to  him,  must  not  live  with 
him  again. 

He  pondered  for  along  time  how  he  was  to 
compass  their  further  separation.     And,  at  length, 


248  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Lily  telling  her 
the  exact  truth. 

"  Think  me  cruel,  selfish,"  he  wrote  at  the  end 
of  his  letter.  "  I  am  cruel.  I  am  selfish.  De- 
spair has  made  me  so.  The  fear  of  madness  has 
made  me  so.  I  must  have  peace.  I  must  and 
will  have  it,  at  whatever  cost." 

He  sent  this  letter  to  the  poste  rcstante  at 
Windermere,  as  Lily  had  directed.  She  and  her 
father  were  moving  about  in  the  Lake  district,  and 
did  not  know  from  day  to  day  where  they  might 
be.  He  received  a  reply  within  a  week.  It 
reached  him  at  breakfast  time,  and,  happening  to 
glance  at  the  postmark  before  he  opened  it,  his  face 
suddenly  flushed  and  his  heart  beat  with  violence. 
For  the  letter  came  from  that  lonely  village  in 
that  sequestered  mountain  valley  in  which  he  had 
once  lived,  in  which  he  had  first  heard  the  cry  of 
the  child.  What  chance  had  led  Lily's  steps  there  ? 
Maurice  read  the  letter  eagerly.  It  was  very  gen- 
tle, very  submissive.  And  there  was  one  strange 
passage  in  it : 

"  I  understand  that  you  are  at  peace,"  Lily 
Avrote.  "  Yet  the  child  is  not  at  peace.  It  is 
crying  still.  You  will  ask  me  how  I  know  that. 
Do  not  ask  me  now.  Some  day  I  shall  send  for 
you  and  tell  you.  When  I  send  for  you,  if  it  is 
by  day  or  night,  promise  that  you  will  come  to 
me.  I  claim  this  promise  from  you.  And  now 
good-bye  for  a  time.  My  father  is  very  unhappy 
about  us.     But  he   trusts  me  completely,  and    I 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  249 

have  told  him  that  you  and  I  must  be  apart,  but 
only  for  a  time.  I  shall  not  write  to  you  again 
till  I  send  for  you.  Even  my  letter  may  disturb 
your  peace  and  I  would  give  up  my  life  to  give 
you  peace." 

There  was  no  allusion  in  the  letter  to  the  reason 
which  had  led  Lily  and  her  father  to  the  out-of- 
the-way  valley  which  had  seen  the  dawn  of 
Maurice's  despair.  And  Maurice  was  greatly 
puzzled.  Again  there  came  over  him  a  curious 
conviction  that  Lily  had  some  secret  from  him, 
some  secret  connected  with  his  fate,  and  that  she 
was  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  some  day,  fixed  in 
her  mind,  on  which  to  make  a  revelation  of  her 
knowledge  to  him.  This  mention  of  an  eventual 
summons,  "  by  day  or  night."  What  could  it 
mean  otherwise?  Maurice  read  the  letter  again 
and  again.  Its  last  words  touched  him  by  their 
perfect  unselfishness  and  also  by  their  feminine 
romance.  He  had  a  moment's  thought  of  the 
many  emotional  stories  Lily  had  read.  "She 
lives  in  one  now,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  then,  as 
usual,  he  became  sclf-cngrossed,  saw  only  his  own 
life,  possibly  touched  for  ever  with  a  light  of  peace. 

The  Canon  returned  alone.  Me  met  Maurice 
gravely,  almost  sternly. 

"I  trust  my  child  entirely,"  he  said.  "She 
has  told  me  that  for  a  time  you  must  live  apart. 
She  has  made  me  promise  not  to  ask  you  the 
reason  of  this  separation.  I  don't  ask  it,  but  if 
you — 


250  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

His  voice  broke  and  he  turned  away  for  a  mo- 
ment.    Then  he  said  : 

"  Lily  remains  in  the  place  from  which  she 
wrote  to  you." 

"She  is  going  to  live  there!  "  Maurice  ex- 
claimed. 

"  For  the  present,  I  could  not  persuade  her 
otherwise.  Her  old  nurse,  Mrs.  Whitehead,  is 
going  up  to  be  with  her.  I  cannot  understand 
all  this." 

The  old  man  cast  his  eyes  searchingly  upon 
Maurice. 

"  What — ?  "  he  began,  then,  remembering  his 
promise  to  his  daughter,  he  stopped  short. 

"  We  will  talk  no  more  about  this,"  he  said 
slowly.     "  No  more." 

He  bade  Maurice  good-bye  and  returned,  sor- 
rowful, to  the  Rectory. 

Lily  kept  her  word.  Maurice  had  no  more 
letters  from  her.  He  only  heard  of  her  from  the 
Canon,  and  knew  that  she  remained  in  that  beau- 
tiful and  terrible  valley,  which  he  remembered  so 
vividly  and  hated  so  ardently.  Meanwhile  he 
dwelt  in  a  peace  that  was  strange  to  him.  The 
little  voice  had  gone  out  of  his  life.  The  cry  of 
the  child  was  hushed.  Often,  in  the  past,  Maurice 
had  contemplated  the  coming  of  this  exquisite 
silence,  but  he  had  always  imagined  it  as  a  gradual 
approach.  He  had  fancied  that  if  the  lamenta- 
tion of  the  child  ever  died  out  of  his  haunted  life 
it  would  fade  away  as  the  sound  of  the  sea  fades 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  25 1 

on  a  long  strand  when  the  whispering  tide  goes 
down.  Day  by  day,  night  by  night,  her  crying 
would  grow  less  poignant,  less  distinct  in  a  long 
diminuendo,  as  if  the  restless  spirit  withdrew 
slowly  farther  and  farther  away,  till  the  cry  be- 
came a  whisper,  then  a  broken  murmur,  then — 
nothing.  This  abrupt  cessation  of  persecution, 
this  violent  change  from  something  that  had 
seemed  like  menace  to  perfect  immunity  from 
trouble,  was  a  fact  that  Maurice  had  never  thought 
of  as  a  possibility.  He  had  grown  to  believe  that 
Lily's  presence  in  his  home  intensified  the  terror 
from  which  he  suffered,  certainly.  But  he  had 
never  supposed  that  her  removal  from  him  would 
lay  the  spirit  entirely  to  rest.  And  she  said  that 
it  was  not  at  rest.  How  could  she  know  that  ? 
And  if  it  were  not  at  rest,  in  what  region  was  it 
pursuing  its  weird  activity  ?  Whither  had  it 
gone?  He  wondered  long  and  deeply.  And 
then  he  resolved  to  wonder  no  more.  Peace  had 
come  to  him  at  last.  He  would  not  break  it  by 
questioning  the  reason  of  it.  He  would  accept  it 
blindly,  joyfully.  Man  blots  the  sunshine  out  of 
life  by  asking  "Why?" 

Time  passed  on.  Brayfield  had  gossiped,  mar- 
velled and  sunk  into  a  sort  of  apathy  of  unrc- 
warded  and  quiescent  curiosity.  The  Canon  pur- 
sued his  life  at  the  Rectory.  Maurice  visited 
his  patients  and  continued  unremittingly  his 
medical  researches.  The  immunity  he  now  en- 
joyed gradually  wrought  a  great  change    in    him. 


252  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

He  emerged  from  prison  into  the  outer  air.  His 
health  rapidly  improved.  His  heavy  eyes  grew 
bright.  His  mind  was  active  and  alert.  He  was 
a  new  man.  The  darkness  faded  round  him.  He 
saw  the  light  at  last.  For  the  silence  endured. 
And  at  last  he  even  forgot  to  listen,  at  dawn  or 
in  the  silent  hours  of  the  night,  for  the  cry  of  the 
child.  Even  the  memory  of  it  began  to  grow 
faint  within  his  heart.  So  rapidly  does  man  for- 
get his  troubles  when  he  still  has  youth  and  the 
years  are  not  heavy  on  him. 

Yet  Maurice  often  thought  of  Lily.  And  now 
that  he  was  no  longer  bowed  under  the  tyranny 
of  a  shattered  nervous  system  he  felt  a  new  ten- 
derness for  her.  He  recalled  her  devotion  and  no 
longer  linked  her  with  his  persecution.  He  re- 
membered her  unselfishness.  He  wished  her  back 
again.  And  then — he  remembered  all  his  misery, 
and  that,  with  her,  it  went.  And  his  selfishness 
said  to  him — it  is  better  so.  And  his  mental 
cowardice  whispered  to  him — your  safety  is  in 
your  solitude.  And  he  put  the  memory  of  Lily's 
love  and  of  the  beauty  of  her  nature  from 
him. 

So  his  silent  autumn  passed  by.  And  his 
silent  winter  came.  One  day,  in  a  December  frost, 
he  met  the  Canon,  muffled  up  to  the  chin  and  on 
his  way  to  see  Miss  Bigelow,  who  professed  her- 
self once  again  in  extremis.  They  stopped  in  the 
snow  and  spoke  a  few  commonplace  words,  but 
Maurice  thought  he  observed  a  peculiar  furtive- 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  253 

ness  in  the  old  man's  manner,  a  hint  of  some  sup- 
pressed  excitement  in  his  voice. 

"  How  is  Lily  ?  "  Maurice  asked. 

"  Fairly  well,"  the  Canon  said. 

"  She  is  still  at  the  inn?" 

"  No,  she  lately  moved  into  a  little  house  further 
up  the  valley." 

"Further  up  the  valley,"  Maurice  said.  "But 
there's  only  one  other  house  in  that  direction.  I 
have  been  there  you  know,"  he  added  hastily. 

"  Lily  told  me  you  had  stayed  there." 

"  Well,  but — "  Maurice  persisted,  "  there  is  only 
one  house,  a  private  house." 

"  They  have  been  building  up  there,"  the  Canon 
said  evasively.  "  Houses  are  springing  up.  It  is 
a  pity.     Good-night." 

And  he  turned  and  walked  away.  Maurice 
stood  looking  after  him.  So  they  had  been  build- 
ing in  the  valley,  and  End  Cottage  no  longer  pos- 
sessed the  distinction  of  being  the  finale  of  man 
in  that  Arcadia  of  woods  and  streams,  and  rugged 
hills  on  which  the  clouds  brooded,  from  which 
the  rain  came  like  a  mournful  pilgrim,  to  weep 
over  the  gentle  shrine  of  nature. 

So  they  had  been  building  in  the  valley. 

Maurice  made  his  way  home.  His  mind  was 
full  of  memories. 

The  close  of  the  year  drew  on.  It  was  a  bad 
season,  a  cruel  season  for  the  poor.  Men  went 
about  saying  to  one  another  that  it  was  a  hard 
winter.     The  pa[)ers  were  full   of   reports   of  ab- 


254  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

normal  frosts,  of  tremendous  falls  of  snow,  of  ice- 
bound rivers  and  trains  delayed.  There  were 
deaths  from  cold.  The  starving  died  off  like 
flies,  under  hedges  by  roadsides,  in  the  fireless 
attics  of  towns.  Comfortable  and  well-to-do  per- 
sons talked  vigorously  of  the  delights  of  an  old- 
fashioned  Christmas.  The  doctors  had  many 
patients.  Among  them  Maurice  was  very  busy. 
His  talent  had  monopolised  Brayfield  and  his 
time  was  incessantly  occupied.  He  scarcely  no- 
ticed Christmas.  For  even  on  that  day  he  was 
full  of  work.  Several  people  managed  to  be  very 
ill  among  the  plum  puddings.  The  year  died  and 
was  buried.  The  New  Year  dawned,  and  still  the 
evil  weather  continued.  In  early  January  Mau- 
rice came  down  one  morning  to  find  by  his  plate 
a  letter  written  in  a  hand  of  old  age,  straggling 
and  complicated.  It  proved  to  be  from  Mrs. 
Whitehead,  Lily's  old  nurse ;  and  it  contained 
that  summons  of  which  Lily  had  spoken  long  ago 
in  her  letter  to  her  husband.  Lily  was  ill  and 
wished  to  see  Maurice  at  once.  The  letter,  though 
involved,  was  urgent. 

Maurice  laid  it  down.  There  was  a  date  on  it 
but  no  name  of  a  house.  By  the  date  Maurice 
saw  that  the  letter  had  been  delayed  in  transit. 
Blizzards,  snow-storms,  had  been  responsible  for 
many  such  delays.  He  got  up  from  the  table. 
At  that  moment  there  was  no  hesitation  in  his 
mind.  He  would  go  to  Lily  at  once,  as  fast  as 
rail  could  carry  him.     In  a  few  moments  his  lug- 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  255 

gage  was  packed.  Within  an  hour  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  station.  He  stopped  the  carriage  at 
the  Rectory  and  asked  to  see  the  Canon  for  a 
moment.  The  servant,  looking  reproachful,  told 
him  her  master  had  started  three  days  before  to 
see  "  Miss  Lily,"  who  was  ill. 

"  Miss  Lily,"  Maurice  said.  "You  mean  Mrs. 
Dale.  I  am  on  my  way  to  see  her  too.  What  is 
the  matter?     They  do  not  tell  me." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  the  servant  said,  softening 
a  little  on  learning  that  Maurice  was  going  north 
to  his  wife. 

Maurice  drove  on  to  the  station. 

In  all  his  after  life  he  never  could  forget  his 
white  journey.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  nature 
gathered  herself  together  to  delay  him,  to  turn 
him  from  his  purpose  of  obeying  the  summons  of 
Lily.  Even  the  line  from  Brayfield  to  London 
was  blocked,  and  when  at  length  Maurice  reached 
London  he  found  the  great  city  staggering  under 
a  burden  of  snow  that  rendered  its  features  un- 
recognisable. All  traffic  was  practically  sus- 
pended. Me  missed  train  after  train,  and  when  he 
drove  at  last  into  Euston  Station  and  expressed 
his  intention  of  going  north  by  the  night  mail  the 
porter  shook  his  head  and  drew  a  terrible  picture 
of  that  arctic  region. 

•'  Most  of  the  lines  are  blocked,  sir,"  he  said,  "  or 
will  be.    It's  a-coming  on  for  more  snow." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  Maurice  said.  "  I  must  go. 
Label  my  luggage." 


256  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

The  train  was  due  to  start  at  midnight.  Mau- 
rice had  a  lonely  dinner  at  the  station  hotel. 
While  he  ate  in  the  gaily  lighted  coffee-room  he 
thought  of  Lily  and  of  his  coming  journey.  The 
influence  of  the  weather  had  surrounded  it  with  a 
curious  romance  such  as  English  travel  seldom  af- 
fords. Maurice  was  very  susceptible  to  the  men- 
tal atmosphere  engendered  by  outward  circum- 
stances, and  yielded  more  readily  than  the  average 
man  to  the  wayward  promptings  of  the  faithful 
spirit  that  nestles  somewhere  in  almost  every  in- 
tellect. He  began  to  regard  this  white  journey  to 
the  ice-bound  and  rugged  north  with  something  of 
a  child's  wide-eyed,  half-delighted,  half-alarmed  an- 
ticipation. He  thought  of  the  darkness,  of  the  dan- 
gers by  the  way,  of  the  multitudes  of  lonely  snow- 
wreathed  miles  the  train  would  have  to  cover  ;  of 
the  increasing  cold  as  they  went  higher  and  higher 
up  the  land,  of  the  early  dawn  over  fells  and  stone 
walls,  of  the  grey  light  on  the  grey  sea.  Then  he 
listened  to  the  strangely  muffled  roar  of  a  London 
hoarse  with  cold.  And  he  shivered  and  had  feel- 
ings of  a  man  bound  on  some  tremendous  and 
novel  quest.  As  he  came  out  of  the  hotel  the 
wintry  air  met  him  and  embraced  him.  He  en- 
tered the  station,  dull  and  sinister  in  the  night, 
with  its  haggard  gas-lamps  and  arches  yawning 
to  the  snow.  There  were  few  passengers,  and  they 
looked  anxious.  The  train  drew  in.  Maurice 
had  his  carriage  to  himself.  The  porter  wished 
him  good  luck  on  his  journey  with  the  voice  and 


THE    LIVING   CHILD.  257 

manner  of  one  clearly  foreseeing  imminent  disaster 
and  death.  The  whistle  sounded,  and  the  train 
glided,  a  long  black  and  orange  snake,  into  the 
white  wonder  of  the  clouded  night.  Snow  beat 
upon  the  windows,  incrusted  with  the  filagree 
work  of  frost,  and  as  the  speed  of  the  train  in- 
creased the  carriage  filled  with  the  persistent 
music  of  an  intense  and  sustained  activity.  This 
music,  and  the  thoughts  of  Maurice  fought  against 
sleep.  He  leaned  back  with  open  eyes  and  lis- 
tened to  the  song  of  the  train.  Its  monotony  was 
like  the  monotony  of  an  irritable  man,  he  thought, 
always  angry,  always  expressing  his  anger.  Be- 
neath bridges,  in  tunnels,  the  anger  was  dashed 
with  ripples  of  fury,  with  spurts  of  brutalising 
passion.  And  then  the  normal  current  of  dull 
temper  flowed  on  again  as  before.  Maurice 
wished  that  the  windows  were  not  merely  thick 
white  blinds  completely  shutting  out  the  night. 
He  longed  to  see  the  storm  in  which  they  fled 
towards  greater  storms,  the  country  which  they 
spurned  as  they  sprang  northwards  !  Northwards  ! 
And  to  that  valley  ! 

His  thoughts  went  to  his  old  life  alone  there, 
to  the  coming  into  it  of  the  haunting  voice,  to  his 
terror,  his  struggle,  his  flight  southward.  He  had 
never  thought  to  return  there.  Yet  now  he  fled 
towards  that  place  of  memories,  calm,  sane, 
cleansed  of  persecution,  with  his  mind  fortified, 
and  his  heart  steadily  and  calmly  beating,  un- 
shaken by  the  agonies  of  old.     Was  he  the  same 


258  TONGUES  OF   CONSCIENCE. 

man  ?  It  seemed  almost  impossible.  And  now 
Maurice  said  to  himself  again  that  perhaps  after 
all  the  cry  of  the  child  had  been  imagination,  a 
symptom  of  illness  in  him  from  which  he  had — 
perhaps  even  through  some  obscure  physical 
change — recovered  completely.  Yet  Lily  had 
believed  in  the  cry  and  believed  in  the  unquiet 
spirit  behind  it.  But  women  are  romantic,  credu- 
lous— 

The  train  rocked  in  a  rapture  of  motion. 
Maurice  drew  his  rugs  more  closely  round  him. 
With  the  advance  of  night  the  cold  grew  more 
deadly. 

Towards  morning  the  pace  of  the  train  inces- 
santly decreased.  Huge  masses  of  snow  had 
drifted  upon  the  line.  For  a  rising  wind  drove  it 
together  under  hedgerows  and  walls  until  expand- 
ing upon  the  track,  it  impeded  the  progress  of  the 
engines.  Maurice  let  down  a  window  and  peered 
out.  He  saw  only  snow,  stationary  or  floating, 
at  rest  in  shadowy  heaps  that  fled  back  in  the 
darkness,  or  falling  in  a  veil  before  his  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  him  now  as  if  a  hand  were  stretched 
out  to  stay  his  impetuous  advance  to  Lily.  The 
train  went  slower  and  slower.  At  last,  towards 
morning,  it  stopped.  A  long  and  distracted 
whistling  pierced  the  air.  There  was  a  jerk,  a 
movement  forward,  then  another  stoppage. 
They  were  snowed  up  in  the  middle  of  a  desolate 
stretch  of  country,  with  a  blizzard  raging  round 
them. 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  259 

How  many  hours  passed  before  they  were  re- 
leased Maurice  never  knew.  He  lay  wrapped  up 
to  the  eyes,  numbed  and  passive  of  body, 
but  mentally  travelling  with  an  extraordinary 
rapidity.  At  first  he  was  in  the  valley.  He 
saw  it,  as  he  had  seen  it  in  old  days,  in  snow, 
its  river  ice-bound,  its  waterfall  arrested  in 
the  midst  of  an  army  of  crystal  spears.  White 
mountains  rose  round  it  to  a  low  sky, 
curved,  like  a  bosom,  in  grey  cloud  shapes.  The 
air  was  sharp  and  silent,  clearer  than  southern 
air,  a  thing  that  seemed  to  hold  itself  alert  in  its 
narrow  prison  on  the  edge  of  solitude.  He  heard 
the  bark  of  a  dog  on  the  hills,  in  search  of  the 
starving  sheep. 

Then  he  came  to  one  of  those  new  houses  of 
which  the  Canon  had  spoken,  and  in  it  he  found 
Lily.  She  was  pale,  but  he  scarcely  noticed  that, 
engrossed  in  the  strangeness  of  finding  her  there. 
For  in  the  south  he  had  never  fully  realised  Lily 
at  home  in  the  valley,  walking  on  the  desolate 
narrow  roads  by  day,  sleeping  in  the  sliadow  of 
the  hills  by  night.  Now  he  began  to  realise  lur 
there.  Where  would  the  house  be?  Near  End 
Cottage,  perhaps  in  sight  of  the  garden  to  which 
he  had  stolen  on  tiiat  evil  night  to  listen  for  the 
voice  of  a  bird  ! 

After  many  hours  the  train  was  dug  out  of  the 
snow,  and  sped  forward  again  in  daylight. 
Maurice  slept  a  little,  but  uncasilj'.  And  now,  when 
he  was   awake,  he   began  to  be  filled  with  an    un- 


260  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

reasonable  apprehension,  for  which  he  accounted 
by  taking  stock  of  the  low  temperature  of  his 
body,  and  of  the  loss  of  vitality  occasioned  by 
want  of  food  and  rest.  He  was  seized  with  fear 
as  he  came  up  into  the  north  and  saw  vaguely 
the  moors  around  him,  the  snowy  waves  where 
the  white  woods  rippled  up  the  flanks  of  the 
white  hills.  He  began  to  realise  again  his  former 
condition  when  his  life  was  full  of  the  lamentation 
of  the  child.  He  began  to  feel  as  if  he  drew  near 
to  that  lamentation  once  more.  Perhaps  the 
little  sorrowful  spirit  had  only  deserted  him  to 
return  to  the  valley  in  which  it  first  greeted  him. 
Perhaps  it  would  come  again  to  him  there.  He 
might  hear  the  cry  from  the  garden  of  the  cottage 
as  he  hastened  past. 

He  shuddered  and  cursed  his  wild  fancies.  But 
they  stayed  with  him  through  all  the  rest  of  the 
journey,  through  all  the  delays  and  periods  of 
numb  patience.  And  they  increased  upon  him. 
When  at  last  he  reached  the  dreary  station  by  the 
flat  sandbanks,  at  which  he  changed  into  the 
vallej  train,  he  was  pale  and  careworn,  and  full  of 
alarm. 

Very  slowly  the  tiny  train  crawled  up  into  the 
heart  of  the  hills  as  the  darkness  of  the  second 
night  came  down.  Maurice  was  the  only  pas- 
senger in  it.  He  felt  like  one  alone  in  a  lonely 
world,  fearing  inhabitants  unseen,  but  whose  dis- 
tant presence  he  was  aware  of.  Could  Lily  indeed 
be   here,    beyond    him    in    this     desolation  ?     It 


THE  LIVING  CHILD.  261 

seemed  impossible.  But  the  child  might  be  here, 
wandering,  a  lost  spirit,  in  this  unutterable  winter. 
That  would  not  be  strange  to  him.  And  his  soul 
grew  colder  than  his  body.  He  could  see  nothing 
from  the  window,  but  occasionally  he  heard  the 
dry  tapping  of  twigs  upon  the  glass,  as  the  train 
crept  among  the  leafless  woods.  And  this  tap- 
ping seemed  to  him  to  be  the  tiny  fingers  of  the 
child,  feebly  endeavouring  to  attract  his  attention. 
He  shrank  away  from  the  window  to  the  centre  of 
the  carriage. 

At  the  last  station  in  the  valley  the  train 
stopped.  Maurice  got  out  into  the  darkness,  and 
asked  the  guard  the  name  of  the  house  in  which 
Mrs.  Dale  lived. 

"  Mrs. Dale,"  he  said,  in  the  broad  Cumberland 
dialect,  "Oh,  she  bides  at  End  Cottage." 

Maurice  stared  at  his  rugged  face  peering 
above  the  round  lamp  which  he  held. 

"  End  Cottage?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  poor  lady  took  it  on  a  six 
months'  lease,  but  I  hear  she's — " 

Jiut  Maurice  had  turned  away  with  a  mut- 
tered : 

"  I'll  send  up  for  the  luggage." 

He  stumbled  out  into  the  white  lane  and 
through  the  little  village.  One  or  two  lads, 
roughly  dressed  and  sprinkled  with  snowflakcs, 
eyed  him  from  the  shelter  of  the  inn  porch.  As 
he  moved  past  them,  lie  heard  their  muttered  com- 
mcnts.     He   left   the   houses  behind   and    found 


262  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

himself  among  snow-laden  trees.  End  Cottage 
was  hidden  in  this  narrow  wood  which  was  gen- 
erally full  of  the  sound  of  the  waterfall. 

Now  the  waterfall  was  silent,  motionless,  a 
dead  thing  in  a  rocky  grave.  Maurice  saw  a  faint 
and  misty  light  among  the  bare  trees.  It  came 
from  his  old  home,  and  now  his  hand  touched  the 
white  garden  gate,  prickly  with  ice.  He  pushed 
it  open  and  stole  up  the  path  till  he  reached  the 
little  porch  of  the  cottage.  As  he  stood  there 
his  heart  beat  hard  and  his  breath  fluttered  in  his 
throat.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  must  be  some 
strange  and  terrible  meaning  in  Lily's  presence 
here.  With  a  shaking  hand  he  pulled  at  the  bell. 
He  waited.  No  one  came.  He  heard  no  step. 
The  silence  was  dense,  even  appalling.  After  a 
long  pause  he  turned  the  handle  of  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  cot- 
tage. Instead  of  entering  at  once  he  waited, 
listening  for  any  sound  of  life  within  the  house, 
for  the  voices  or  footsteps  of  those  inhabiting  it. 

Just  so  had  he  waited  on  a  summer  night  long 
ago,  with  the  moon  behind  him  and  leaf-laden 
trees.  He  listened,  and,  after  a  moment  of  pro- 
found stillness,  he  heard — as  he  had  heard  in  that 
very  place  so  long  ago — the  faint  cry  of  a  child. 
It  came  from  within  the  house,  clear  and  distinct 
though  frail  and  feeble. 

Involuntarily  Maurice  moved  a  step  backward 
into  the  snow.  Horror  overwhelmed  him.  The 
dead  child  was  here  then  with  Lily,   in  his  old 


THE    LIVING    CHILD.  263 

abode.  The  spirit  was  not  laid  to  rest.  It  had 
only  deserted  him  for  a  while  to  greet  him  again 
here,  to  take  up  again  here  its  eternal  persecution  ; 
and  this  resurrection  appalled  and  unmanned  him 
more  than  all  the  persistent  haunting  of  the  past. 
He  was  dashed  from  confidence  to  despair.  The 
little  cry  paralysed  him,  and  he  leaned  against 
the  wall  of  the  porch  almost  like  a  dying  man. 

And  again  he  heard  the  cry  of  the  child. 

How  live  and  how  real  it  was  !  Maurice  re- 
membered that  he  had  said  to  himself  that  the  cry 
was  a  phantasy  of  the  brain,  an  imaginary  sound 
vibrating  from  an  afflicted  body.  And  now  his 
intellect  denied  such  a  supposition  ;  the  cry  came 
from  a  thing  that  lived,  although  it  lived  in  an- 
other world.  It  seemed  to  summon  him  with  a 
strange  insistence.  Against  his  will,  and  walking 
slowly  as  one  in  a  trance,  he  moved  forward  up 
the  narrow  stairway  till  he  reached  the  room  that 
had  been  his  old  bedroom. 

The  cry  came  surely  from  within  that  room. 
The  dead  child  was  shut  in  there.  Yes,  never  be- 
fore had  Maurice  been  able  to  locate  the  cry  pre- 
cisely. Now  he  could  locate  it.  With  sliaking 
fingers  he  grasped  the  handle  of  the  door.  He 
stood  in  a  faint  illumination,  and  the  cry  of  tlie 
child  came  louder  to  his  ears.  But  there  mingled 
with  it  another  cry,  faint  yet  thrilling  with  joy  : 

"Maurice!  " 

He  looked  and  saw  Lily,  white  as  a  flower.  She 
was  propped   on  pillows,  and,  stretching  out  her 


264  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

thin  girl's  arms,  she  held  feebly  towards  Maurice 
a  tiny  baby. 

"  Maurice — it  is  the  child  !  "  she  whispered. 

"  The  child  !  "  he  repeated  hoarsely. 

For  an  instant  he  believed  that  his  fate  was 
sealed,  that  the  spirit,  which  for  so  long  had  pur- 
sued him  with  its  lamenting,  now  manifested  its 
actual  presence  to  his  eyes.  Then,  in  a  flash,  the 
truth  came  upon  him.  He  fell  upon  his  knees  by 
the  bedside  and  put  out  his  arms  for  the  child.  He 
held  it.  He  felt  its  soft  breath  against  his  cheek. 
A  cooing  murmur,  as  if  of  tiny  happiness,  came 
from  its  parted  lips.  It  turned  its  little  face, 
flushed  like  a  rose,  against  the  breast  of  Maurice, 
and  nestled  to  sleep  upon  his  heart. 

And  Lily's  hand  touched  him. 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  come  in  time,  "  she 
said,  as  the  nurse,  at  a  sign  from  her,  stole  softly 
from  the  room. 

**  In  time?  " 

"  To  see  me  before — they  say,  you  know, 
that—" 

"  Lily  !  "  he  cried. 

"Hush!  The  child  !  Listen,  dear.  If  I  die, 
take  the  child.  It  is  your  dead  child,  I  think, 
come  to  life  through  me.  Yes,  yes,  it  is  the  little 
child  that  has  cried  for  love  so  long.  Redeem 
your  cruelty,  oh,  Maurice,  redeem  it  to  your  child. 
Give  it  your  love.     Give  it  your  life.     Give  it — " 

"  Lily  !  "  he  said  again.  And  there  were  tears 
on  his  cheeks. 


THE    LIVING   CHILD.  265 

"  I  gave  myself  to  you  for  this,  Maurice.  I  was 
waiting  for  this.  Do  you  understand  me  now  ? 
You  scarcely  loved  me,  Maurice.  But  I  loved 
you.  Let  me  think — in  dying — that  I  have 
brought  you  peace  at  last." 

He  could  not  speak.  The  mystery  of  woman, 
the  mystery  of  child  was  too  near  to  him.  Awe 
came  upon  him  and  the  terror  of  his  own  unworthi- 
ness,  rewarded — or  punished — which  was  it? — by 
such  compassion,  such  self-sacrifice. 

"  When  I  left  you,"  Lily  murmured,  and  her 
voice  sounded  thin  and  tired,  "  it  seemed  as  if  the 
spirit  of  the  child  came  with  me,  as  if  I,  too,  heard 
its  dead  voice  in  the  night,  crying  for  its  salvation, 
for  its  relief  from  agony.  But,  Maurice,  you  can- 
not hear  it  now.  You  will  never  hear  it  arain — 
unless — unless — " 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.  They  were  growing 
dim. 

"  God  has  given  the  dead  to  you  again  througli 
me,"  she  faltered,  "  that  you — may — redeem — 
redeem — your — sin." 

She  moved,  and  leaned  against  him,  as  if  she 
would  gather  him  and  the  sleeping  child  into  her 
embrace.  But  she  could  not.  She  slipped  back 
softly,  almost  like  a  snowflake  that  falls  and  is 
gone. 

Maurice  Dale  is  a  famous  doctor  now.  He 
lives  witli  his  daughter,  who  n<  \<r  leaves  him  and 
whom    he    loves    passionately.       Many    patients 


266  TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

throng  to  his  consulting-room,  but  not  one  of 
them  suspects  that  the  grave  physician,  deep  down 
in  his  heart,  cherishes  a  strange  belief — not  based 
upon  science.  This  belief  is  connected  with  his 
child.  Secretly  he  thinks  of  her  as  of  one  risen 
from  the  grave,  come  back  to  him  from  beyond 
the  gates  of  death. 

The  cry  of  the  child  is  silent.  Maurice  never 
hears  it  now.  But  he  believes  that  could  any  demon 
tempt  him,  even  for  one  moment,  to  be  cruel  to 
his  little  daughter,  he  would  hear  it  again.  It 
would  lament  once  more  in  the  darkness,  would 
once  more  fill  the  silence  with  its  despair. 

And  then  a  dead  woman  would  stir  in  her 
grave. 

For  there  are  surely  cries  of  earth  that  even  the 
dead  can  hear. 


HOW   LOVE    CAME   TO    PROFESSOR 
GUILDEA. 


HOW  LOVE  CAME  TO  PROFESSOR 

GUILDEA, 


Dull  people  often  wondered  how  it  came 
about  that  Father  Murchison  and  Professor 
Frederic  Guildea  were  intimate  friends.  The  one 
was  all  faith,  the  other  all  scepticism.  The  na- 
ture of  the  Father  was  based  on  love.  He 
viewed  the  world  with  an  almost  childlike  tender- 
ness above  his  long,  black  cassock  ;  and  his  mild, 
yet  perfectly  fearless,  blue  eyes  .seemed  always 
to  be  watching  the  goodness  that  exists  in  hu- 
manity, and  rejoicing  at  what  they  saw.  The  Pro- 
fessor, on  the  other  hand,  had  a  hard  face  like  a 
hatchet,  tipped  with  an  aggressive  black  goatee 
beard.  His  eyes  were  quick,  piercing  and  irrev- 
erent. The  lines  about  his  small,  thin-lipped 
mouth  were  almost  cruel.  His  voice  was  harsh 
and  dry,  sometimes,  when  he  grew  energetic,  al- 
most soprano.  It  fired  off  words  with  a  sharp 
and  clipping  utterance.  His  hal)ilual  manner 
was    one  of  distrust   and   investigation.      It    was 

impossible  to  suppose   that,  in    his  busy  life,  he 

269 


270  TONGUES  OF    CONSCIENCE. 

found  any  time  for  love,  either  of  humanity  in 
general  or  of  an  individual. 

Yet  his  days  were  spent  in  scientific  investiga- 
tions which  conferred  immense  benefits  upon  the 
world. 

Both  men  were  celibates.  Father  Murchison 
was  a  member  of  an  Anglican  order  which  for- 
bade him  to  marry.  Professor  Guildea  had  a 
poor  opinion  of  most  things,  but  especially  of 
women.  He  had  formerly  held  a  post  as  lecturer 
at  Birmingham.  But  when  his  fame  as  a  dis- 
coverer grew  he  removed  to  London.  There,  at 
a  lecture  he  gave  in  the  East  End,  he  first  met 
Father  Murchison.  They  spoke  a  few  words. 
Perhaps  the  bright  intelligence  of  the  priest  ap- 
pealed to  the  man  of  science,  who  was  inclined, 
as  a  rule,  to  regard  the  clergy  with  some  con- 
tempt. Perhaps  the  transparent  sincerity  of  this 
devotee,  full  of  common  sense,  attracted  him. 
As  he  was  leaving  the  hall  he  abruptly  asked  the 
Father  to  call  on  him  at  his  house  in  Hyde  Park 
Place.  And  the  Father,  who  seldom  went  into 
the  West  End,  except  to  preach,  accepted  the 
invitation. 

"  When  will  you  come?"  said  Guildea. 

He  was  folding  up  the  blue  paper  on  which  his 
notes  were  written  in  a  tiny,  clear  hand.  The 
leaves  rustled  drily  in  accompaniment  to  his 
sharp,  dry  voice. 

"  On  Sunday  week  I  am  preaching  in  the  even- 
ing at  St.  Saviour's,  not  far  off,"  said  the  Father. 


PROFESSOR  GUILDEA.  271 

"  I  don't  go  to  church." 

"  No,"  said  the  Father,  without  any  accent  of 
surprise  or  condemnation. 

"  Come  to  supper  afterwards?  " 

"  Thank  you.     I  will." 

"  What  time  will  you  come  ?  " 

The  Father  smiled. 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  finished  my  sermon.  The 
service  is  at  six-thirty." 

"  About  eight  then,  I  suppose.  Don't  make 
the  sermon  too  long.  My  number  in  Hyde  Park 
Place  is  a  hundred.     Good-night  to  you." 

He  snapped  an  elastic  band  round  his  papers 
and  strode  off  without  shaking  hands. 

On  the  appointed  Sunday,  Father  Murchison 
preached  to  a  densely  crowded  congregation  at 
St.  Saviour's.  The  subject  of  his  sermon  was 
sympathy,  and  the  comparative  uselessness  of 
man  in  the  world  unless  he  can  learn  to  love  his 
neighbour  as  himself.  The  sermon  was  rather 
long,  and  when  the  preacher,  in  his  flowing,  black 
cloak,  and  his  hard,  round  hat,  with  a  straight 
brim  over  which  hung  the  ends  of  a  black  cord, 
made  his  way  towards  the  Professor's  house,  the 
hands  of  the  illuminated  clock  disc  at  the  Marble 
Arch  pointed  to  twenty  minutes  past  eight. 

The  I'^athcr  hurried  on  pushing  his  way  through 
the  crowd  of  standing  soldiers,  chattering  women 
and  giggling  street  boys  in  their  .Sunday  best. 
It  was  a  warm  A[)ril  night,  and,  when  he  rcachrd 
number  100,  Hyde  Park  Place,  he  found  the  Pro- 


272  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

fessor  bareheaded  on  his  doorstep,  gazing  out 
towards  the  Park  railings,  and  enjoying  the  soft, 
moist  air,  in  front  of  his  hghted  passage. 

"  Ha,  a  long  sermon  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "Come 
in." 

"  I  fear  it  was,"  said  the  Father,  obeying  the 
invitation.  "  I  am  that  dangerous  thing — an  ex- 
tempore preacher." 

"  More  attractive  to  speak  without  notes,  if  you 
can  do  it.  Hang  your  hat  and  coat — oh,  cloak 
— here.  We'll  have  supper  at  once.  This  is  the 
dining-room." 

He  opened  a  door  on  the  right  and  they  en- 
tered a  long,  narrow  room,  with  a  gold  paper  and 
a  black  ceiling,  from  which  hung  an  electric  lamp 
with  a  gold-coloured  shade.  In  the  room  stood  a 
small  oval  table  with  covers  laid  for  two.  The 
Professor  rang  the  bell.     Then  he  said, 

"  People  seem  to  talk  better  at  an  oval  table 
than  at  a  square  one." 

"Really.     Is  that  so?" 

"  Well,  I've  had  precisely  the  same  party 
twice,  once  at  a  square  table,  once  at  an  oval 
table.  The  first  dinner  was  a  dull  failure,  the 
second    a    brilliant     success.     Sit    down,    won't 

"  How  d'you  account  for  the  difference  ?"  said 
the  Father,  sitting  down,  and  pulling  the  tail  of 
his  cassock  well  under  him. 

H*m.     I  know  how  you'd  account  for  it." 

Indeed.     How  then  ?  " 


<( 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  273 

"  At  an  oval  tabic,  since  there  are  no  corners, 
the  chain  of  human  sympathy — the  electric  cur- 
rent, is  much  more  complete.  Eh  !  Let  me 
give  you  some  soup." 

"  Thank  you." 

The  Father  took  it,  and,  as  he  did  so,  turned  his 
beaming  blue  eyes  on  his  host.     Then  he  smiled. 

"  What  !  "  he  said,  in  his  pleasant,  light  tenor 
voice.     "  You  do  go  to  church  sometimes,  then  ?  " 

"  To-night  is  the  first  time  for  ages.  And, 
mind  you,  I  was  tremendously  bored." 

The  Father  still  smiled,  and  his  blue  eyes 
gently  twinkled. 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  he  said,  "  what  a  pity  ! " 

"  But  not  by  the  sermon,"  Guildea  added.  "  I 
don't  pay  a  compliment.  I  state  a  fact.  The 
sermon  didn't  bore  me.  If  it  had,  I  should  have 
said  so,  or  said  nothing." 

"  And  which  would  you  have  done  ?  " 

The  IVofessor  smiled  almost  genially. 

"  Don't  know,"  he  said.  "  What  wine  d'you 
drink  ?  " 

"  None,  thank  you.  I'm  a  teetotaller.  In  my 
profession  and  milieu  it  is  necessary  to  be  one. 
Yes,  I  will  have  some  soda  water.  T  think  you 
would  have  done  the  first." 

"  Very  likely,  and  very  wrongly.  You  wouldn't 
have  minded  much." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should." 

They  were  intimate  already.  Tlic  Father  felt 
most  pleasantly  at  home  under  the  black  ceiling. 


274  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

He  drank  some  soda  water  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
it  more  than  the  Professor  enjoyed  his  claret. 

"  You  smile  at  the  theory  of  the  chain  of 
human  sympathy,  I  see,"  said  the  Father. 
"  Then  what  is  your  explanation  of  the  failure  of 
your  square  party  with  corners,  the  success  of 
your  oval  party  without  them  ?  " 

"  Probably  on  the  first  occasion  the  wit  of  the 
assembly  had  a  chill  on  his  liver,  while  on  the 
second  he  was  in  perfect  health.  Yet,  you  see,  I 
stick  to  the  oval  table." 

"  And  that  means " 

"  Very  little.  By  the  way,  your  omission  of 
any  allusion  to  the  notorious  part  liver  plays  in 
love  was  a  serious  one  to-night." 

"  Your  omission  of  any  desire  for  close  human 
sympathy  in  your  life  is  a  more  serious  one." 

"  How  can  you  be  sure  I  have  no  such  desire  ?  " 

"  I  divine  it.  Your  look,  your  manner,  tell  me 
it  is  so.  You  were  disagreeing  with  my  sermon 
all  the  time  I  was  preaching.     Weren't  you  ?  " 

"  Part  of  the  time." 

The  servant  changed  the  plates.  He  was  a 
middle-aged,  blond,  thin  man,  with  a  stony  white 
face,  pale,  prominent  eyes,  and  an  accomplished 
manner  of  service.  When  he  had  left  the  room 
the  Professor  continued, 

"  Your  remarks  interested  me,  but  I  thought 
them  exaggerated." 

"  For  instance  ?  " 

*'  Let   me   play  the  egoist   for  a  moment.     1 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  275 

spend  most  of  my  time  in  hard  work,  very  hard 
work.  The  results  of  this  work,  you  will  allow, 
benefit  humanity." 

"  Enormously,"  assented  the  Father,  thinking 
of  more  than  one  of  Guildea's  discoveries. 

"And  the  benefit  conferred  by  this  work,  un- 
dertaken merely  for  its  own  sake,  is  just  as  great 
as  if  it  were  undertaken  because  I  loved  my  fel- 
low man  and  sentimentally  desired  to  see  him 
more  comfortable  than  he  is  at  present.  I'm  as 
useful  precisely  in  my  present  condition  of — in 
my  present  non-affcctional  condition — as  I  should 
be  if  I  were  as  full  of  gush  as  the  sentimentalists 
who  want  to  get  murderers  out  of  prison,  or  to 
put  a  premium  on  tyranny — like  Tolstoi — by 
preventing  the  punishment  of  tyrants." 

"  One  may  do  great  harm  with  affection  ;  great 
good  without  it.  Yes,  that  is  true.  Even  le  bon 
motif  \s  not  everything,  I  know.  Still  I  contend 
that,  given  your  powers,  you  would  be  far  more 
useful  in  the  world  with  sympathy,  affection  for 
your  kind,  added  to  them  than  as  you  are.  I  be- 
lieve even  that  you  would  do  still  more  splendid 
work." 

The  Professor  poured  himself  out  another  glass 
of  claret. 

"  You  noticed  my  butler  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  did." 

"  He's  a  perfect  servant.  He  makes  me  per- 
fectly comfortable.  Yet  li'-  lias  no  feeling  of 
liking  for   me.      I    treat    him    civilly.      I  pay  him 


276  TONGUES   OP^   CONSCIENCE. 

well.  But  I  never  think  about  him,  or  concern 
myself  with  him  as  a  human  being.  I  know 
nothing  of  his  character  except  what  I  read  of  it 
in  his  last  master's  letter.  There  are,  you  may 
say,  no  truly  human  relations  between  us.  You 
would  afifirm  that  his  work  would  be  better  done 
if  I  had  made  him  personally  like  me  as  man — of 
any  class — can  like  man — of  any  other  class?  " 

"  I  should,  decidedly." 

"  I  contend  that  he  couldn't  do  his  work  better 
than  he  does  it  at  present." 

"  But  if  any  crisis  occurred  ?  " 

"  What  ?  " 

"Any  crisis,  change  in  your  condition.  If  you 
needed  his  help,  not  only  as  a  man  and  a  butler, 
but  as  a  man  and  a  brother?  He'd  fail  you  then, 
probably.  You  would  never  get  from  your  ser- 
vant that  finest  service  which  can  only  be 
prompted  by  an  honest  affection. " 

"You  have  finished?" 

"Quite." 

"Let  us  go  upstairs  then.  Yes,  those  are  good 
prints.  I  picked  them  up  in  Birmingham  when 
I  was  living  there.     This  is  my  workroom." 

They  came  into  a  double  room  lined  entirely 
with  books,  and  brilliantly,  rather  hardly,  lit  by 
electricity.  The  windows  at  one  end  looked  on 
to  the  Park,  at  the  other  on  to  the  garden  of  a 
neighbouring  house.  The  door  by  which  they 
entered  was  concealed  from  the  inner  and  smaller 
room  by  the  jutting  wall  of  the  outer  room,  in 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  277 

which  stood  a  huge  writing-table  loaded  with 
letters,  pamphlets  and  manuscripts.  Between 
the  two  windows  oTthe  inner  room  was  a  cage  in 
which  a  large,  grey  parrot  was  clambering,  using 
both  beak  and  claws  to  assist  him  in  his  slow  and 
meditative  peregrinations." 

"  You  have  a  pet,"  said  the  Father,  surprised. 

"  I  possess  a  parrot,"  the  Professor  answered, 
drily,  "  I  got  him  for  a  purpose  when  I  was  mak- 
ing a  study  of  the  imitative  powers  of  birds,  and 
I  have  never  got  rid  of  him.     A  cigar?  " 

"  Thank  you." 

They  sat  down.  Father  Murchison  glanced  at 
the  parrot.  It  had  paused  in  its  journey,  and, 
clinging  to  the  bars  of  its  cage,  was  regarding 
them  with  attentive  round  eyes  that  looked  de- 
liberately intelligent,  but  by  no  means  sympa- 
thetic. He  looked  away  from  it  to  Guildca,  who 
was  smoking,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  his 
sharj),  pointed  chin,  on  which  the  small  black 
beard  bristled,  upturned.  lie  was  moving  his 
under  lip  up  and  down  rapidly.  This  action 
caused  the  beard  to  stir  and  look  peculiarly  ag- 
gressive.    The   Father  suddenly  chuckled  softly. 

••  Why's  that  ?  "  cried  Guildea,  letting  his  chin 
drop  down  on  his  breast  and  looking  at  his  guest 
sharply. 

"  I  was  thinking  it  would  have  to  be  a  crisis 
indeed  that  could  make  you  cling  to  your  butler's 
affection  for  assistance." 

Guildea  smiled  too. 


278  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  You're   right.     It   would.     Here  he  comes." 

The  man  entered  with  coffee.  He  offered  it 
gently,  and  retired  like  a  shadow  retreating  on  a 
wall. 

"  Splendid,  inhuman  fellow,"  remarked  Guildea. 

"  I  prefer  the  East  End  lad  who  does  my  errands 
in  Bird  Street,"  said  the  Father.  "  I  know  all 
his  worries.  He  knows  some  of  mine.  We  are 
friends.  He's  more  noisy  than  your  man.  He 
even  breathes  hard  when  he  is  specially  solici- 
tous, but  he  would  do  more  for  me  than  put  the 
coals  on  my  fire,  or  black  my  square-toed  boots." 

"  Men  are  differently  made.  To  me  the  watch- 
ful eye  of  affection  would  be  abominable." 

"  What  about  that  bird  ?" 

The  Father  pointed  to  the  parrot.  It  had  got 
up  on  its  perch  and,  with  one  foot  uplifted  in  an 
impressive,  almost  benedictory,  manner,  was  gaz- 
ing steadily  at  the  Professor. 

"  That's  the  watchful  eye  of  imitation,  with  a 
mind  at  the  back  of  it,  desirous  of  reproducing 
the  peculiarities  of  others.  No,  I  thought  your 
sermon  to-night  very  fresh,  very  clever.  But  I 
have  no  wish  for  affection.  Reasonable  liking,  of 
course,  one  desires,"  he  tugged  sharply  at  his 
beard,  as  if  to  warn  himself  against  sentimen- 
tality,— "  but  anything  more  would  be  most  irk- 
«?ome,  and  would  push  me,  I  feel  sure,  towards 
cruelty.     It  would  also  hamper  one's  work." 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  The  sort  of  work  I  do.     I  shall  continue  to 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  279 

benefit  the  world  without  loving  it,  and  it  will 
continue  to  accept  the  benefits  without  loving 
me.     That's  all  as  it  should  be." 

He  drank  his  coffee.  Then  he  added,  rather 
aggressively : 

"  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  for  sen- 
timentality." 

When  Guildea  let  Father  Murchison  out,  he 
followed  the  Father  on  to  the  doorstep  and  stood 
there  for  a  moment.  The  Father  glanced  across 
the  damp  road  into  the  Park. 

"  I  see  you've  got  a  gate  just  opposite  you,"  he 
said  idly. 

"  Yes.  I  often  slip  across  for  a  stroll  to  clear 
my  brain.  Good-night  to  you.  Come  again 
some  day." 

"  With  pleasure.     Good-night." 

The  Priest  strode  away,  leaving  Guildea  stand- 
ing on  the  step. 

Father  Murchison  came  many  times  again  to 
number  one  hundred  Hyde  Park  Place.  He  had 
a  feeling  of  liking  for  most  men  and  women 
whom  he  knew,  and  of  tenderness  for  all,  whether 
he  knew  them  or  not,  but  he  grew  to  have  a 
special  sentiment  towards  Guildea.  Strangely 
enough,  it  was  a  sentiment  of  pity.  He  pitied 
this  hard-working,  eminently  successful  man  of 
big  brain  and  bold  heart,  who  never  seemed  de- 
pressed, who  never  wanted  assistance,  who  never 
complained  of  the  twisted  skein  of  life  or  faltered 
in  his  progress  along  its  way.     The  Father  pitied 


28o  TONGUES   OF  CONSCIENCE. 

Guildea,  in  fact,  because  Guildea  wanted  so  little. 
He  had  told  him  so,  for  the  intercourse  of  the 
two  men,  from  the  beginning,  had  been  singularly 
frank. 

One  evening,  when  they  were  talking  together, 
the  Father  happened  to  speak  of  one  of  the  od- 
dities of  life,  the  fact  that  those  who  do  not  want 
things  often  get  them,  while  those  who  seek  them 
vehemently  are  disappointed  in  their  search. 

"  Then  I  ought  to  have  affection  poured  upon 
me,"  said  Guildea,  smiling  rather  grimly.  "  For 
I  hate  it." 

"  Perhaps  some  day  you  will." 

"  I  hope  not,  most  sincerely." 

Father  Murchison  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 
He  was  drawing  together  the  ends  of  the  broad 
band  round  his  cassock.  When  he  spoke  he 
seemed  to  be  answering  someone. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "yes,  that  ts  my  feeling 
—pity." 

'*  For  whom  ?"  said  the  Professor. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  understood.  He  did  not 
say  that  he  understood,  but  Father  Murchison 
felt,  and  saw,  that  it  was  quite  unnecessary  to 
answer  his  friend's  question.  So  Guildea,  strangely 
enough,  found  himself  closely  acquainted  with  a 
man — his  opposite  in  all  ways, — who  pitied  him. 

The  fact  that  he  did  not  mind  this,  and  scarcely 
ever  thought  about  it,  shows  perhaps  as  clearly 
as  anything  could  the  peculiar  indifference  of 
his  nature. 


ROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  281 


II. 

One  Autumn  evening,  a  year  and  a  half  after 
Father  Murchison  and  the  Professor  had  first  met, 
the  Father  called  in  Hyde  Park  Place  and  enquired 
of  the  blond  and  stony  butler — his  name  was 
Pitting — whether  his  master  was  at  home. 

••  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Pitting.  "  Will  you  please 
come  this  way  ?  " 

He  moved  noiselessly  up  the  rather  narrow 
stairs,  followed  by  the  Father,  tenderly  opened 
the  library  door,  and  in  his  soft,  cold  voice,  an- 
nounced : 

"  Father  Murchison." 

Guildca  was  sitting  in  an  armchair,  before  a 
small  fire.  His  thin,  long-fingered  hands  lay  out- 
stretched upon  his  knees,  his  head  was  sunk  down 
on  his  chest.  He  appeared  to  be  pondering 
deeply.      Pitting  very  slightly  raised  his  voice. 

"Father  Murchison  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  re- 
peated. 

The  Professor  jumped  up  rather  suddenly  and 
turned  sharply  round  as  the  I-'athcr  came  in. 

"  Oh,"  he  said.  "  It's  you,  is  it  ?  Glad  to  sec 
you.     Come  to  the  fire." 

The  Father  glanced  at  him  and  thought  him 
looking  unusually  fatigued. 


282  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  You  don't  look  well  to-night,"  the  Father  said 

"No?" 

"  You  must  be  working  too  hard.  That  lecture 
you  arc  going  to  give  in  Paris  is  bothering  you  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  It's  all  arranged.  I  could  deliver 
it  to  you  at  this  moment  verbatim.  Well,  sit 
down." 

The  Father  did  so,  and  Guildea  sank  once  more 
into  his  chair  and  stared  hard  into  the  fire  with- 
out another  word.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking 
profoundly.  His  friend  did  not  interrupt  him, 
but  quietly  lit  a  pipe  and  began  to  smoke  reflect- 
ively. The  eyes  of  Guildea  were  fixed  upon  the 
fire.  The  Father  glanced  about  the  room,  at  the 
walls  of  soberly  bound  books,  at  the  crowded 
writing-table,  at  the  windows,  before  which  hung 
heavy,  dark-blue  curtains  of  old  brocade,  at  the 
cage,  which  stood  between  them.  A  green  baize 
covering  was  thrown  over  it.  The  Father  won- 
dered why.  He  had  never  seen  Napoleon — so 
the  parrot  was  named — covered  up  at  night  be- 
fore. While  he  was  looking  at  the  baize,  Guildea 
suddenly  jerked  up  his  head,  and,  taking  his 
hands  from  his  knees  and  clasping  them,  said 
abruptly : 

"  D'you  think  Fm  an  attractive  man  ?  " 

Father  Murcliison  jumped.  Such  a  question 
coming  from  such  a  man  astounded  him. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  What  makes 
you  ask?  Do  you  mean  attractive  to  the  oppo- 
site sex?  " 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  283 

"  That's  what  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Professor 
gloomily,  and  staring  again  into  the  fire.  "  That's 
what  I  don't  know." 

The  Father  grew  more  astonished. 

"  Don't  know  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

And  he  laid  down  his  pipe. 

"Let's  say — d'you  think  I'm  attractive,  that 
there's  anything  about  me  which  might  draw  a — 
a  human  being,  or  an  animal,  irresistibly  to  me  ?  " 

"  Whether  you  desired  it  or  not  ?  " 

"  Exactly — or — no,  let  us  say  definitely — if  I 
did  not  desire  it." 

Father  Murchison  pursed  up  his  rather  full, 
cherubic  lips,  and  little  wrinkles  appeared  about 
the  corners  of  his  blue  eyes. 

"  There  might  be,  of  course,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause.  "  Human  nature  is  weak,  engagingly  weak, 
Guildea.  And  you're  inclined  to  flout  it.  I 
could  understand  a  certain  class  of  lady — the 
lion-hunting,  the  intellectual  lady,  seeking  you. 
Your  reputation,  your  great  name " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Guildea  interrupted,  rather  irrita- 
bly—" I  know  all  that,  I  know." 

He  twisted  his  long  hands  together,  bending 
the  palms  outwards  till  his  thin,  pointed  fingers 
cracked.     His   forehead  was  wrinkled  in  a  frown. 

"  I  imagine,"  he  said, — he  stopped  and  coughed 
drily,  almost  shrilly — "  I  imagine  it  would  be  very 
disagreeable  to  be  liked,  to  be  run  after — that  is 
the  usual  expression,  isn't  it — by  anything  one 
objected  to." 


284  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

And  now  he  half  turned  in  his  chair,  crossed 
his  legs  one  over  the  other,  and  looked  at  his 
guest  with  an  unusual,  almost  piercing  interroga- 
tion. 

"  Anything  ?  "  said  the  Father. 

"  Well — well,  anyone.  I  imagine  nothing  could 
be  more  unpleasant." 

"  To  you — no,"  answered  the  Father.  "  But — 
forgive  me,  Guildea,  I  cannot  conceive  you  per- 
mitting such  intrusion.  You  don't  encourage 
adoration." 

Guildea  nodded  his  head  gloomily. 

"  I  don't,"  he  said,  "  I  don't.  That's  just  it. 
That's  the  curious  part  of  it,  that  I " 

He  broke  off  deliberately,  got  up  and  stretched. 

"  I'll  have  a  pipe,  too,"  he  said. 

He  went  over  to  the  mantelpiece,  got  his  pipe, 
filled  it  and  lighted  it.  As  he  held  the  match  to 
the  tobacco,  bending  forward  with  an  inquiring 
expression,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  green  baize 
that  covered  Napoleon's  cage.  He  threw  the 
match  into  the  grate,  and  puffed  at  the  pipe  as 
he  walked  forward  to  the  cage.  When  he 
reached  it  he  put  out  his  hand,  took  hold  of  the 
baize  and  began  to  pull  it  away.  Then  suddenly 
he  pushed  it  back  over  the  cage. 

"  No,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself,  "  no." 

He  returned  rather  hastily  to  the  fire  and 
threw  himself  once  more  into  his  armchair. 

"You're  wondering"  he  said  to  Father  Mur- 
chison.     "  So  am  I.     I  don't  know  at  all  what  £0 


PROP^ESSOR    GUILDEA.  285 

make  of  it.  I'll  just  tell  you  the  facts  and  you 
must  tell  me  what  you  think  of  them.  The  night 
before  last,  after  a  day  of  hard  work — but  no 
harder  than  usual — I  w-ent  to  the  front  door  to 
get  a  breath  of  air.     You  know  I  often  do  that." 

"Yes,  I  found  you  on  the  doorstep  when  I 
first  came  here." 

"  Just  so.  I  didn't  put  on  hat  or  coat.  I 
just  stood  on  the  step  as  I  was.  My  mind,  I  re- 
member, was  still  full  of  my  work.  It  was  rather 
a  dark  night,  not  very  dark.  The  hour  wasabout 
eleven,  or  a  quarter  past.  I  was  staring  at  the 
Park,  and  presently  I  found  that  my  eyes  were 
directed  towards  somebody  who  was  sitting,  back 
to  me,  on  one  of  the  benches.  I  saw  the  person 
— if  it  was  a  person, — through  the  railings." 

"  If  it  was  a  person  !  "  said  the  Father.  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  I  say  that  because  it  was  too 
dark  for  me  to  know.  I  merely  saw  some  black- 
ish object  on  tiie  bench,  rising  into  view  above 
the  level  of  the  back  of  tlic  seat.  I  couldn't  say 
it  was  man,  woman  or  cliild.  But  something 
there  was,  and  I  found  that  I  was  looking  at  it. 

"  I  understand." 

"  Gradually,  I  also  found  that  my  thoughts 
were  becoming  fixed  upon  this  thing  or  person. 
1  began  to  wonder,  first,  what  it  was  doing  there; 
ne.xt,what  it  was  thinking;  lastly, what  it  was  like." 

"  Some  poor  creature  without  a  home,  I  sup, 
pose,"  said  the  Father. 


286  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  I  said  that  to  myself.  Still,  I  was  taken  with 
an  extraordinary  interest  about  this  object,  so 
great  an  interest  that  I  got  my  hat  and  crossed 
the  road  to  go  into  the  Park.  As  you  know, 
there's  an  entrance  almost  opposite  to  my  house. 
Well,  Murchison,  I  crossed  the  road,  passed 
through  the  gate  in  the  railings,  went  up  to  the 
seat,  and  found  that  there  was — nothing  on  it." 

"  Were  you  looking  at  it  as  you  walked  ?" 

"  Part  of  the  time.  But  I  removed  my  eyes 
from  it  just  as  I  passed  through  the  gate,  because 
there  was  a  row  going  o!i  a  little  way  off,  and  I 
turned  for  an  instant  in  that  direction.  When  I 
saw  that  the  seat  was  vacant  I  was  seized  by  a 
most  absurd  sensation  of  disappointment,  almost 
of  anger.  I  stopped  and  looked  about  me  to  see 
if  anything  was  moving  away,  but  I  could  see 
nothing.  It  was  a  cold  night  and  misty,  and 
there  were  few  people  about.  Feeling,  as  I  say, 
foolishly  and  unnaturally  disappointed,  I  retraced 
my  steps  to  this  house.  When  I  got  here  I 
discovered  that  during  my  short  absence  I  had 
left  the  hall  door  open — half  open." 

"  Rather  imprudent  in  London." 

"  Yes.  I  had  no  idea,  of  course,  that  I  had 
done  so,  till  I  got  back.  However,  I  was  only 
away  three  minutes  or  so." 

"Yes," 

"  It  was  not  likely  that  anybody  had  gone  in." 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"  Was  it  ?  " 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  287 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  that,  Guildea  ?  " 

"  Well,  well !  " 

"  Besides,  if  anybody  had  gone  in  on  your  re- 
turn you'd  have  caught  him,  surely." 

Guildea  coughed  again.  The  Father,  surprised, 
could  not  fail  to  recognise  that  he  was  nervous 
and  that  his  nervousness  was  affecting  him  phy- 
sically. 

"  I  must  have  caught  cold  that  night,"  he  said, 
as  if  he  had  read  his  friend's  thought  and  hastened 
to  contradict  it.     Then  he  went  on  : 

"  I  entered  the  hall,  or  passage,  rather." 

He  paused  again.  His  uneasiness  was  becom- 
ing very  apparent. 

"And  you  did  catch  somebody?"  said  the 
Father. 

Guildea  cleared  his  throat. 

"  That's  just  it,"  he  said,  "  now  wc  come  to  it. 
Fm  not  imaginative,  as  you  know." 

"  You  certainly  are  not." 

"  No,  but  hardly  had  I  stepped  into  the  pas- 
sage before  I  felt  certain  that  somebody  had  got 
into  the  house  during  my  absence.  I  felt  con- 
vinced of  it,  and  not  only  that,  I  also  felt  con- 
vinced that  the  intruder  was  the  very  person  I 
had  dimly  seen  sitting  upon  the  seat  in  the  Park, 
What  d'you  say  to  that? 

"  I  begin  to  think  you  are  imaginative." 

"  H'm  !  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  person — 
the  occupant  of  the  .scat — and  I,  had  simulta- 
neously   formed  the  project  of  interviewing  each 


288  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

other,  had  simultaneously  set  out  to  put  that 
project  into  execution.  I  became  so  certain  of 
this  that  I  walked  hastily  upstairs  into  this  room, 
excepting  to  find  the  visitor  awaiting  me.  But 
there  was  no  one.  I  then  came  down  again  and 
went  into  the  dining-room.  No  one.  I  was 
actually  astonished.     Isn't  that  odd?" 

"  Very,"  said  the  Father,  quite  gravely. 

The  Professor's  chill  and  gloomy  manner,  and 
uncomfortable,  constrained  appearance  kept  away 
the  humour  that  might  well  have  lurked  round 
the  steps  of  such  a  discourse. 

"  I  went  upstairs  again,"  he  continued,  "  sat 
down  and  thought  the  matter  over.  I  resolved 
to  forget  it,  and  took  up  a  book.  I  might  per- 
haps have  been  able  to  read,  but  suddenly  I 
thought  I  noticed " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Father  Murchison  ob- 
served that  he  was  staring  towards  the  green 
baize  that  covered  the  parrot's  cage. 

"  But  that's  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Enough  that 
I  couldn't  read.  I  resolved  to  explore  the  house. 
You  know  how  small  it  is,  how  easily  one  can  go 
all  over  it.  I  went  all  over  it.  I  went  into  every 
room  without  exception.  To  the  servants,  who 
were  having  supper,  I  made  some  excuse.  They 
were  surprised  at  my  advent,  no  doubt." 

"And  Pitting?" 

"  Oh,  he  got  up  politely  when  I  came  in,  stood 
while  I  was  there,  but  never  said  a  word.  I  mut- 
tered  '  don't  disturb  yourselves,'  or  something  of 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  289 

-he  sort,  and  came  out.  Murchison,  I  found  no- 
body new  in  the  house — yet  I  returned  to  this 
room  entirely  convinced  that  somebody  had  en- 
tered while  I  was  in  the  Park." 

"And  gone  out  again  before  you  came  back?" 

"  No,  had  stayed,  and  was  still  in  the  house." 

"  But,  my  dear  Guildea,"  began  the  Father, 
now  in  great  astonishment.     "  Surely " 

"  I  know  what  you  want  to  say — what  I  should 
want  to  say  in  your  place.  Now,  do  wait.  I  am 
also  convinced  that  this  visitor  has  not  left  the 
house  and  is  at  this  moment  in  it." 

He  spoke  with  evident  sincerity,  with  extreme 
gravity.  Father  Murchison  looked  him  full  in 
the  face,  and  met  his  quick,  keen  eyes. 

"  No,"  he  said,  as  if  in  reply  to  an  uttered 
question  :  "  I'm  perfectly  sane,  I  assure  you.  The 
whole  matter  seems  almost  as  incredible  to  me 
as  it  must  to  you.  But,  as  you  know,  I  never 
quarrel  with  facts,  however  strange.  I  merely 
try  to  examine  into  them  thoroughly.  I  have 
already  consulted  a  doctor  and  been  pronounced 
in  perfect  bodily  health. 

He  paused,  as  if  expecting  the  Father  to  say 
something. 

"  Go  on,  Guildea,"  he  said,  "  you  haven't 
finished." 

"  No.  I  felt  tliat  night  positive  that  somebody 
had  entered  the  house,  and  remained  in  it,  and 
my  conviction  grew.  I  went  to  bed  as  usual,  and, 
contrary   to   my   expectation,    slept  as  well  as  I 


290  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

generally  do.  Yet  directly  I  woke  up  yesterday 
morning  I  knew  that  my  household  had  been  in- 
creased by  one." 

"  May  I  interrupt  you  for  one  moment?  How 
did  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  By  my  mental  sensation.  I  can  only  say  that 
I  was  perfectly  conscious  of  anew  presence  within 
my  house,  close  to  me." 

"  How  very  strange,"  said  the  Father.  "  And 
you  feel  absolutely  certain  that  you  are  not  over- 
worked? Your  brain  does  not  feel  tired?  Your 
head  is  quite  clear  ?  " 

"  Quite.  I  was  never  better.  When  I  came 
down  to  breakfast  that  morning  I  looked  sharply 
into  Fitting's  face.  He  was  as  coldly  placid  and 
inexpressive  as  usual.  It  was  evident  to  me  that 
his  mind  was  in  no  way  distressed.  After  break- 
fast I  sat  down  to  work,  all  the  time  ceaselessly 
conscious  of  the  fact  of  this  intruder  upon  my 
privacy.  Nevertheless,  I  laboured  for  several 
hours,  waiting  for  any  development  that  might 
occur  to  clear  away  the  mysterious  obscurity  of 
this  event.  I  lunched.  About  half-past  two  I 
was  obliged  to  go  out  to  attend  a  lecture.  I 
therefore,  took  my  coat  and  hat,  opened  my  door, 
and  stepped  on  to  the  pavement.  I  was  instantly 
aware  that  I  was  no  longer  intruded  upon,  and 
this  although  I  was  now  in  the  street,  surrounded 
by  people.  Consequently,  I  felt  certain  that  the 
thing  in  my  house  must  be  thinking  of  me,  per- 
haps even  spying  upon  me." 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  29I 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  interrupted  the  Father. 
"  What  was  your  sensation  ?  Was  it  one  of  fear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  I  was  entirely  puzzled, — as  I 
am  now — and  keenly  interested,  but  not  in  any 
way  alarmed.  I  delivered  my  lecture  with  my 
usual  ease  and  returned  home  in  the  evening.  On 
entering  the  house  again  I  was  perfectly  conscious 
that  the  intruder  was  still  there.  Last  night  I 
dined  alone  and  spent  the  hours  after  dinner  in 
reading  a  scientific  work  in  which  I  was  deeply 
interested.  While  I  read,  however,  I  never  for 
one  moment  lost  the  knowledge  that  some  mind 
— very  attentive  to  me — was  within  hail  of  mine. 
I  will  say  more  than  this — the  sensation  con- 
stantly increased,  and,  by  the  time  I  got  up  to  go 
to  bed,  I  had  come  to  a  very  strange  conclusion." 

"What?  What  was  it?" 

"  That  whoever — or  whatever — had  entered  my 
house  during  my  short  absence  in  the  Park  was 
more  than  interested  in  me." 

"  More  than  interested  in  you?" 

"  Was  fond,  or  was  becoming  fond,  of  me." 

"  Oil !  "  exclaimed  the  Father.  "  Now  I  un- 
derstand  why  }'ou  asked  me  just  now  whctlu  r  I 
thought  there  was  anything  about  you  that  might 
draw  a  human  being  or  an  animal  irresistibly  to 
you. 

"  Precisely.  Since  I  came  to  this  conclusion, 
Murchison,  I  will  confess  that  my  feeling  of 
strong  curiosity  has  become  tinged  with  another 
feeling." 


292  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  Of  fear  ?  ' 

"  No,  of  dislike,  of  irritation.  No — not  fear, 
not  fear." 

As  Guildea  repeated  unnecessarily  this  assev- 
eration he  looked  again  towards  the  parrot's  cage. 

"  What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of  in  such  a 
matter  ?  "  he  added.  "  I'm  not  a  child  to  tremble 
before  bogies." 

In  saying  the  last  words  he  raised  his  voice 
sharply  ;  then  he  walked  quickly  to  the  cage,  and, 
with  an  abrupt  movement,  pulled  the  baize  cov- 
ering from  it.  Napoleon  was  disclosed,  appar- 
ently dozing  upon  his  perch  with  his  head  held 
slightly  on  one  side.  As  the  light  reached  him, 
he  moved,  ruffled  the  feathers  about  his  neck, 
blinked  his  eyes,  and  began  slowly  to  sidle  to  and 
fro,  thrusting  his  head  forward  and  drawing  it 
back  with  an  air  of  complacent,  though  rather 
unmeaning,  energy.  Guildea  stood  by  the  cage, 
looking  at  him  closely,  and  indeed  with  an  atten- 
tion that  was  so  intense  as  to  be  remarkable, 
almost  unnatural. 

"  How  absurd  these  birds  are ! "  he  said  at 
length,  coming  back  to  the  fire. 

"You  have  no  more  to  tell  me?"  asked  the 
Father. 

"  No.  I  am  still  aware  of  the  presence  of 
something  in  my  house.  I  am  still  conscious  of 
its  close  attention  to  me.  I  am  still  irritated, 
seriously  annoyed — I  confess  it, — by  that  atten- 
tion." 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  293 

"You  say  you  are  aware  of  the  presence  of 
something  at  this  moment?" 

"  At  this  moment — yes." 

"  Do  you  mean  in  this  room,  with   us,  now?" 

"  I  should  say  so — at  any  rate,  quite  near  us." 

Again  he  glanced  quickly,  almost  suspiciously, 
towards  the  cage  of  the  parrot.  The  bird  was 
sitting  still  on  its  perch  now.  Its  head  was  bent 
down  and  cocked  sideways,  and  it  appeared  to  be 
listening  attentively  to  something. 

"  That  bird  will  have  the  intonations  of  my 
voice  more  correctly  than  ever  by  to-morrow 
morning,"  said  the  Father,  watching  Guildea 
closely  with  his  mild  blue  eyes.  "  And  it  has  al- 
ways imitated  me  very  cleverly." 

The  Professor  started  slightly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "Yes,  no  doubt.  Well,  what 
do  you  make  of  this  affair?" 

"  Nothing  at  all.  It  is  absolutely  inexplicable. 
I  can  speak  quite  frankly  to  you,  I  feel  sure." 

"Of  course.  That's  why  I  have  told  you  the 
whole  thing." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  over-worked,  over- 
strained,  without  knowing  it." 

"  And  that  the  doctor  was  mistaken  when  he 
said  I  was  all  right  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Guildea  knocked  his  pipe  out  against  the 
chimney  piece. 

"  It  may  be  so,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not  be  so  un- 
reasonable  as  to  deny  the  possibility,  although   I 


294  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

feel  as  well  as  I  ever  did  in  my  life.  What  do 
you  advise  then  ?  " 

"  A  week  of  complete  rest  away  from  London, 
in  good  air." 

**  The  usual  prescription.  I'll  take  it.  I'll  go 
to-morrow  to  Westgate  and  leave  Napoleon  to 
keep  house  in  my  absence." 

For  some  reason,  which  he  could  not  explain 
to  himself,  the  pleasure  which  Father  Murchison 
felt  in  hearing  the  first  part  of  his  friend's  final 
remark  was  lessened,  was  almost  destroyed,  by 
the  last  sentence. 

He  walked  towards  the  City  that  night,  deep 
in  thought,  remembering  and  carefully  consider- 
ing the  first  interview  he  had  with  Guildea  in  the 
latter's  house  a  year  and  a  half  before. 

On  the  following  morning  Guildea  left  London. 


in. 

Father  Murchison  was  so  busy  a  man  that 
he  had  little  time  for  brooding  over  the  affairs  of 
others.  During  Guildea's  week  at  the  sea,  how- 
ever, the  Father  though  about  him  a  great  deal, 
with  much  wonder  and  some  dismay.  The  dismay 
was  soon  banished,  for  the  mild-eyed  priest  was 
quick  to  discern  weakness  in  himself,  quicker 
still  to  drive  it  forth  as  a  most  undesirable  inmate 
of  the  soul.  But  the  wonder  remained.  It  was 
destined  to  a  crescendo.     Guildea  had  left  Lon- 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  295 

don  on  a  Thursday.  On  a  Thursday  he  returned, 
having  previously  sent  a  note  to  Father  Murchi- 
son  to  mention  that  he  was  leaving  Westgate  at 
a  certain  time.  When  his  train  ran  in  to  Victoria 
Station,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  evening,  he  was 
surprised  to  see  the  cloaked  figure  of  his  friend 
standing  upon  the  grey  platform  behind  a  line  of 
porters. 

*'  What,  Murchison  !  "  he  said.  "  You  here  ! 
Have  you  seceded  from  your  order  that  you  are 
taking  this  holiday  ?" 

They  shook  hands. 

"  No,"  said  the  Father.  "  It  happened  that  I 
had  to  be  in  this  neighbourhood  to-day,  visiting 
a  sick  person.  So  I  thought  I  would  meet 
you. 

"  And  see  if  I  were  still  a  sick  person,  eh  ?" 

The  Professor  glanced  at  him  kindlj-,  but  with 
a  dry  little  laugh. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  replied  the  Father  gently,  looking 
at  him  with  interest.  "  No,  I  think  not.  You 
appear  very  well." 

The  sea  air  had,  in  fact,  put  some  brownish  red 
into  Guildea's  always  thin  cheeks.  His  keen  eyes 
were  shining  with  life  and  energy,  and  he  walked 
forward  in  his  loose  grey  suit  and  fluttering  over- 
coat with  a  vigour  that  was  noticeable,  carrying 
easily  in  his  left  hand  his  well-filled  Gladstone 
bag. 

The  Father  felt  completely  reassured. 

"  I  never  saw  you  look  better,"  he  said. 


296  TONGUES   OF  CONSCIENCE. 

"  I  never  was  better.     Have  you   an  hour  to 

'  "  Two." 

"  Good.  I'll  send  my  bag  up  by  cab,  and  we'll 
walk  across  the  Park  to  my  house  and  have  a  cup 
of  tea  there.     What  d'you  say  ?  " 

"  I  shall  enjoy  it." 

They  walked  out  of  the  station  yard,  past  the 
flower  girls  and  newspaper  sellers  towards  Gros- 
venor  Place. 

"  And  you  have  had  a  pleasant  time  ? "  the 
Father  said. 

"  Pleasant  enough,  and  lonely.  I  left  my  com- 
panion behind  me  in  the  passage  at  Number  100, 
you  know." 

"  And  you'll  not  find  him  there  now,  I  feel 
sure." 

"  H'm  !  "  ejaculated  Guildea.  "  What  a  pre- 
cious weakling  you  think  me,  Murchison." 

As  he  spoke  he  strode  forward  more  quickly^ 
as  if  moved  to  emphasise  his  sensation  of  bodily 
vigour. 

"  A  weakling — no.  But  anyone  who  uses  his 
brain  as  persistently  as  you  do  yours  must  re- 
quire an  occasional  holiday," 

"  And  I  required  one  very  badly,  eh  ?  " 

"You  required  one,  I  believe." 

"  Well,  I've  had  it.     And  now  we'll  see." 

The  evening  was  closing  in  rapidly.  They 
crossed  the  road  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  en- 
tered the  Park,  in  which  were  a  number  of  people 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  297 

going  home  from  work  ;  men  in  corduroy  trous- 
ers, caked  with  dried  mud,  and  carrying  tin  cans 
slung  over  their  shoulders,  and  flat  panniers,  in 
which  lay  their  tools.  Some  of  the  younger  ones 
talked  loudly  or  whistled  shrilly  as  they  walked. 

"  Until  the  evening,"  murmured  Father  Mur- 
chison  to  himself. 

"What?"  asked  Guildea. 

"  I  was  only  quoting  the  last  words  of  the  text, 
which  seems  written  upon  life,  especially  upon 
the  life  of  pleasure  :  '  Man  goeth  forth  to  his 
work,  and  to  his  labour.'  " 

"  Ah,  those  fellows  are  not  half  bad  fellows  to 
have  in  an  audience.  There  were  a  lot  of  them 
at  the  lecture  I  gave  when  I  first  met  you,  I  re- 
member. One  of  them  tried  to  heckle  me.  He 
had  a  red  beard.  Chaps  with  red  beards  are  al- 
ways hecklers.  I  laid  him  low  on  that  occasion. 
Well,  Murchison,  and  now  we're  going  to  sec." 

"What?" 

"  Whether  my  companion  has  departed." 

"  Tell  me — do  yo'u  feci  any  expectation  of — 
well — of  again  thinking  something  is  there  ?  " 

"  How  carefully  you  choose  language.  No,  I 
merely  wonder." 

"  You  have  no  apprehension  ?  " 

"  Not  a  scrap.  But  I  confess  to  feeling  curi- 
ous. 

"  Then  the  sea  air  hasn't  taught  you  to  recog- 
nise that  the  whole  thing  came  from  ovrstrain." 

"  No,"  said  Guildea,  very  drily. 


298  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

He  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  minute.  Then 
he  added : 

"  You  thought  it  would  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  thought  it  might." 

"  Make  mc  realise  that  I  had  a  sickly,  morbid, 
rotten  imagination — heh?  Come  now,  Murchi- 
son,  why  not  say  frankly  that  you  packed  me  off 
to  Westgatc  to  get  rid  of  what  you  considered 
an  acute  form  of  hysteria?  " 

The  Father  was  quite  unmoved  by  this  attack. 

"  Come  now,  Guildea,"  he  retorted,  "  what  did 
you  expect  me  to  think?  I  saw  no  indication  of 
hysteria  in  you.  I  never  have.  One  would  sup- 
pose you  the  last  man  likely  to  have  such  a  mal- 
ady. But  which  is  more  natural — for  me  to  be- 
lieve in  your  hysteria  or  in  the  truth  of  such  a 
story  as  you  told  me  ?  " 

"  You  have  me  there.  No,  I  mustn't  complain. 
Well,  there's  no  hysteria  about  me  now,  at  any 
rate." 

"And  no  stranger  in  your  house,  I  hope." 

Father  Murchison  spoke  the  last  words  with 
earnest  gravity,  dropping  the  half-bantering  tone 
— which  they  had  both  assumed. 

"You   take   the   matter   very   seriously,  I    be- 
lieve," said  Guildea,  also  speaking  more  gravely. 
"  How  else  can  I  take  it  ?     You  wouldn't  have 
me  laugh  at  it  when  you  tell  it  me  seriously?" 

"  No.  If  we  find  my  visitor  still  in  the  house, 
I  may  even  call  upon  you  to  exorcise  it.  But 
first  I  must  do  one  thing." 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  299 

"And  that  is?" 

"  Prove  to  you,  as  well  as  to  myself,  that  it  is 
still  there." 

"  That  might  be  difficult,"  said  the  Father, 
considerably  surprised  by  Guildea's  matter-of-fact 
tone. 

"  I  don't  know.  If  it  has  remained  in  my 
house  I  think  I  can  find  a  means.  And  I  shall 
not  be  at  all  surprised  if  it  is  still  there — despite 
the  Westgate  air." 

In  saying  the  last  words  the  Professor  re- 
lapsed into  his  former  tone  of  dry  chaff.  The 
Father  could  not  quite  make  up  his  mind  whether 
Guildea  was  feeling  unusually  grave  or  unusually 
gay.  As  the  two  men  drew  near  to  Hyde  Park 
Place  their  conversation  died  away  and  they 
walked  forward  silently  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

"  Here  wc  are ! "  said  Guildea  at  last. 

He  thrust  his  key  into  the  door,  opened  it  and 
let  Father  Murchison  into  the  passage,  following 
him  closely  and  banging  the  door. 

"  Here  wc  are !  "  he  repeated  in  a  louder  voice. 

The  electric  light  was  turned  on  in  anticipation 
of  his  arrival.      He  stood  still  and  looked  round. 

"  We'll  have  some  tea  at  once,"  he  said.  "Ah, 
Pitting!" 

The  pale  butler,  who  had  heard  the  door  bang, 
moved  gently  forward  from  the  top  of  the  stairs 
that  led  to  the  kitchen,  greeted  his  master  re- 
spectfully, took  his  coat  and  Father  Murchison's 
cloak,  and  hung  them  on  two  pegs  against  the  wall. 


300  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  All's  right,  Pitting  ?  All's  as  usual  ?"  said 
Guildca. 

"  Quite  so,  sir," 

"  Bring  us  up  some  tea  to  the  library." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Pitting  retreated.  Guildca  waited  till  he  had 
disappeared,  then  opened  the  dining-room  door, 
put  his  head  into  the  room  and  kept  it  there  for 
a  moment,  standing  perfectly  still.  Presently  he 
drew  back  into  the  passage,  shut  the  door,  and 
said, 

"  Let's  go  upstairs." 

Father  Murchison  looked  at  him  enquiringly, 
but  made  no  remark.  They  ascended  the  stairs 
and  came  into  the  library.  Guildea  glanced 
rather  sharply  round.  A  fire  was  burning  on  the 
hearth.  The  blue  curtains  were  drawn.  The 
bright  gleam  of  the  strong  electric  light  fell  on 
the  long  rows  of  books,  on  the  writing  table, — 
very  orderly  in  consequence  of  Guildea's  holiday 
— and  on  the  uncovered  cage  of  the  parrot. 
Guildea  went  up  to  the  cage.  Napoleon  was  sit- 
ting humped  up  on  his  perch  with  his  feathers 
ruffled.  His  long  toes,  which  looked  as  if  they 
were  covered  with  crocodile  skin,  clung  to  the 
bar.  His  round  and  blinking  eyes  were  filmy, 
like  old  eyes.  Guildea  stared  at  the  bird  very 
hard,  and  then  clucked  with  his  tongue  against  his 
teeth.  Napoleon  shook  himself,  lifted  one  foot, 
extended  his  toes,  sidled  along  the  perch  to  the 
bars  nearest  to  the  Professor  and  thrust  his  head 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA,  301 

against  them.  Guildea  scratched  it  with  his  fore- 
finger two  or  three  times,  still  gazing  attentively 
at  the  parrot ;  then  he  returned  to  the  fire  just  as 
Pitting  entered  with  the  tea-tray. 

Father  Murchison  was  already  sitting  in  an  arm 
chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire.  Guildea  took 
another  chair  and  began  to  pour  out  tea,  as  Pit- 
ting left  the  room  closing  the  door  gently  behind 
him.  The  Father  sipped  his  tea,  found  it  hot 
and  set  the  cup  down  on  a  little  table  at  his  side. 

"  You're  fond  of  that  parrot,  aren't  you  ?"  he 
asked  his  friend. 

"  Not  particularly.  It's  interesting  to  study 
sometimes.  The  parrot  mind  and  nature  arc 
peculiar." 

"  How  long  have  you  had  him  ?  " 

"  About  four  years.  I  nearly  got  rid  of  him  just 
before  I  made  your  acquaintance.  I'm  very  glad 
now  I  kept  him." 

•' Are  you  ?     Why  is  that?" 

"  I  shall  probably  tell  you  in  a  day  or  two." 

The  Father  took  his  cup  again.  lie  did  not 
press  Guildea  for  an  immediate  explanation,  but 
when  they  had  both  finished  their  tea  he  said  : 

"  Well,  has  the  sea-air  had  the  desired  effect  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Guildea. 

The  Father  brushed  some  crumbs  from  the 
front  of  his  cassock  and  sat  up  higher  in  his  chair. 

"  Your  visitor  is  still  lierc  ?"  he  asked,  and  his 
blue  eyes  became  almost  ungentle  and  piercing 
as  he  gazed  at  his  friend. 


302  TONGUES    OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Guildea,  calmly, 

**  How  do  you  know  it,  when  did  you  know  it 
— when  you  looked  into  the  dining-room  just 
now  r 

"  No.  Not  until  I  came  into  this  room.  It 
welcomed  me  here." 

"  Welcomed  you  !     In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Simply  by  being  here,  by  making  me  feel 
that  it  is  here,  as  I  might  feel  that  a  man  was  if  I 
came  into  the  room  when  it  was  dark." 

He  spoke  quietly,  with  perfect  composure  in 
his  usual  dry  manner. 

"  Very  well,"  the  Father  said,  "  I  shall  not  try 
to  contend  against  your  sensation,  or  to  explain 
it  away.     Naturally,  I  am  in  amazement." 

"  So  am  I.  Never  has  anything  in  my  life  sur- 
prised me  so  much.  Murchison,  of  course  I  can- 
not expect  you  to  believe  more  than  that  I  hon- 
estly suppose — imagine,  if  you  like — that  there  is 
some  intruder  here,  of  what  kind  I  am  totally  un- 
aware. I  cannot  expect  you  to  believe  that  there 
really  is  anything.  If  you  were  in  my  place,  I  in 
yours,  I  should  certainly  consider  you  the  victim 
of  some  nervous  delusion.  I  could  not  do  other- 
wise. But — wait.  Don't  condemn  me  as  a  hys- 
teria patient,  or  as  a  madman,  for  two  or  three 
days.  I  feel  convinced  that — unless  I  am  indeed 
unwell,  a  mental  invalid,  which  I  don't  think  is 
possible — I  shall  be  able  very  shortly  to  give  you 
some  proof  that  there  is  a  newcomer  in  my 
house." 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  303 

"  You  don't  tell  me  what  kind  of  proof  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  Things  must  go  a  little  farther  first. 
But,  perhaps  even  to-morrow  I  may  be  able  to 
explain  myself  more  fully.  In  the  meanwhile, 
I'll  say  this,  that  if,  eventually,  I  can't  bring  any 
kind  of  proof  that  I'm  not  dreaming  I'll  let  you 
take  me  to  any  doctor  you  like,  and  I'll  resolutely 
try  to  adopt  your  present  view — that  I'm  suffer- 
ing from  an  absurd  delusion.  That  is  your  view 
of  course  ?  " 

Father  Murchison  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said,  rather  doubtfully  : 

"  It  ought  to  be." 

"  But  isn't  it  ?  "  asked  Guildea,  surprised. 

"  Well,  you  know,  your  manner  is  enormously 
convincing.  Still,  of  course,  I  doubt.  How  can 
I  do  otherwise  ?  The  whole  thing  must  be 
fancy." 

The  Father  spoke  as  if  he  were  trying  to  recoil 
from  a  mental  position  he  was  being  forced  to 
take  up. 

"  It  must  be  fancy,"  he  repeated. 

"  I'll  convince  you  by  mr)rc  than  my  manner, 
or  I'll  not  try  to  convince  you  at  all,"  said  Guildea. 

When  they  parted  that  evening,  he  said, 

"  I'll  write  to  you  in  a  day  or  two  probably.  I 
think  the  proof  I  am  going  to  give  you  has  been 
accumulating  during  my  absence.  But  I  shall 
.soon  know." 

Father  Murchison  was  extremely  pu/zlcd  as  he 
sat  on  the  top  of  the   omnibus  going  homeward. 


304  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 


IV. 

In  two  days*  time  he  received  a  note  from 
Guildea  asking  him  to  call,  if  possible,  the  same 
evening.  This  he  was  unable  to  do  as  he  had  an 
engagement  to  fulfil  at  some  East  End  gathering. 
The  following  day  Avas  Sunday.  lie  wrote  say- 
ing he  would  come  on  the  Monday,  and  got  a 
wire  shortly  afterwards:  "Yes,  Monday  come  to 
dinner  seven-thirty  Guildea."  At  half-past  seven 
he  stood  on  the  doorstep  of  Number  lOO. 

Pitting  let  him  in. 

"Is  the  Professor  quite  well,  Pitting?"  the 
Father  inquired  as  he  took  off  his  cloak. 

"  I  believe  so,  sir.  He  has  not  made  any  com- 
plaint,"  the  butler  formally  replied.  "Will  you 
come  upstairs,  sir?" 

Guildea  met  them  at  the  door  of  the  library. 
He  was  very  pale  and  sombre,  and  shook  hands 
carelessly  with  his  friend. 

"  Give  us  dinner,"  he  said  to  Pitting. 

As  the  butler  retired,  Guildea  shut  the  door 
rather  cautiously.  Father  Murchison  had  never 
before  seen  him  look  so  disturbed. 

"  You're  worried,  Guildea,"  the  Father  said. 
"  Seriously  worried." 

"  Yes,  I  am.  This  business  is  beginning  to  tell 
on  me  a  good  deal." 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  305 

"  Your  belief  in  the  presence  of  something  here 
continues  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes.  There's  no  sort  of  doubt  about 
the  matter.  The  night  I  went  across  the  road 
into  the  Park  something  got  into  the  house, 
though  what  the  devil  it  is  I  can't  yet  find  out. 
But  now,  before  we  go  down  to  dinner,  I'll  just 
tell  you  something  about  that  proof  I  promised 
you.     You  remember  ?  " 

"  Naturally." 

"  Can't  you  imagine  what  it  might  be." 

Father  Murchison  moved  his  head  to  express  a 
negative  reply. 

"  Look  about  the  room,"  said  Guildea.  "  What 
do  you  see?" 

The  Father  glanced  round  the  room,  slowly 
and  carefully. 

"  Nothing  unusual.  You  do  not  mean  to  tell 
me  there  is  any  appearance  of " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  there's  no  conventional,  white- 
robed,  cloud-like  figure.  Bless  my  soul,  no  !  I 
haven't  fallen  so  low  as  that." 

He  spoke  with  considerable  irritation. 

"  Look  again." 

Father  Murchison  looked  at  him,  turned  in  the 
direction  of  his  fixed  eyes  and  saw  the  grey 
parrot  clambering  in  its  cage,  slowly  and  per- 
sistently. 

"What?"  he  said,  quickly.  "Will  tlic  proof 
come  from  there?" 

The  Professor  nodded. 
«5 


306  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  said.  "  Now  let's  go  down 
to  dinner.     I  want  some  food  badly." 

They  descended  to  the  dining-room.  While 
they  ate  and  Pitting  waited  upon  them,  the  Pro- 
fessor talked  about  birds,  their  habits,  their 
curiosities,  their  fears  and  their  powers  of  imita- 
tion. He  had  evidently  studied  this  subject  with 
the  thoroughness  that  was  characteristic  of  him  in 
all  that  he  did. 

"  Parrots,"  he  said  presently,  "  are  extraordi- 
narily observant.  It  is  a  pity  that  their  means 
of  reproducing  what  they  see  are  so  limited.  If 
it  were  not  so,  I  have  little  doubt  that  their  echo 
of  gesture  would  be  as  remarkable  as  their  echo 
of  voice  often  is." 

*'  But  hands  are  missing." 

"  Yes.  They  do  many  things  with  their  heads, 
however.  I  once  knew  an  old  woman  near  Gor- 
ing on  the  Thames.  She  was  afflicted  with  the 
palsy.  She  held  her  head  perpetually  sideways 
and  it  trembled,  moving  from  right  to  left.  Her 
sailor  son  brought  her  home  a  parrot  from  one 
of  his  voyages.  It  used  to  reproduce  the  old 
woman's  palsied  movement  of  tlic  head  exactly. 
Those  grey  parrots  arc  always  on  the  watch." 

Guildea  said  the  last  sentence  slowly  and  de- 
liberately, glancing  sharply  over  his  wine  at 
Father  Murchison,  and,  when  he  had  spoken  it, 
a  sudden  light  of  comprehension  dawned  in  the 
Priest's  mind.  He  opened  his  lips  to  make  a 
swift  remark.     Guildea   turned  his   bright   eyes 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  307 

towards  Pitting,  who  at  the  moment  was  tenderly 
bearing  a  cheese  meringue  from  the  lift  that  con- 
nected the  dining-room  with  the  lower  regions. 
The  Father  closed  his  lips  again.  But  presently, 
when  the  butler  had  placed  some  apples  on  the 
table,  had  meticulously  arranged  the  decanters, 
brushed  away  the  crumbs  and  evaporated,  he 
said,  quickly, 

"  I  begin  to  understand.  You  think  Napoleon 
is  aware  of  the  intruder?" 

"  I  know  it.  He  has  been  watching  my  visi- 
tant ever  since  the  night  of  that  visitant's  arrival." 

Another  flash  of  light  came  to  the  Priest. 

"  That  was  why  you  covered  him  with  green 
baize  one  evening?" 

*'  Exactly.  An  act  of  cowardice.  His  behav- 
iour was  beginning  to  grate  upon  my  nerves." 

Guildca  pursed  up  his  thin  lips  and  drew  his 
brows  down,  giving  to  his  face  a  look  of  sudden 
pain. 

"  But  now  I  intend  to  follow  his  investiga- 
tions," he  added,  straightening  his  features. 
"  The  week  I  wasted  at  Westgate  was  not  wasted 
by  him  in  London,  I  can  assure  ytni.  Have  an 
apple." 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  no,  thank  you." 

The  Father  repeated  the  words  without  know- 
ing that  he  did  so.    Guildea  pushed  aw;iy  his  glass. 

"  Let  us  come  upstairs,  then." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  reiterated  the  Father. 

"Eh?" 


3o8  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"What  am  I  saying?"  exclaimed  the  Father, 
getting  up.  "  I  was  thinking  over  this  extraordi- 
nary affair." 

"  Ah,  you're  beginning  to  forget  the  hysteria 
theory?  " 

They  walked  out  into  the  passage. 

"  Well,  you  are  so  very  practical  about  the 
whole  matter." 

"  Why  not  ?  Here's  something  very  strange 
and  abnormal  come  into  my  life.  What  should  I 
do  but  investigate  it  closely  and  calmly  ?  " 

"What,  indeed?" 

The  Father  began  to  feel  rather  bewildered, 
under  a  sort  of  compulsion  which  seemed  laid 
upon  him  to  give  earnest  attention  to  a  matter 
that  ought  to  strike  him — so  he  felt — as  entirely 
absurd.  When  they  came  into  the  library  his 
eyes  immediately  turned,  with  profound  curiosity, 
towards  the  parrot's  cage.  A  slight  smile  curled 
the  Professor's  lips.  He  recognised  the  effect  he 
was  producing  upon  his  friend.  The  Father  saw 
the  smile. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  won  over  yet,"  he  said  in  answer 
to  it. 

"  I  know.  Perhaps  you  may  be  before  the 
evening  is  over.  Here  comes  the  coffee.  After 
we  have  drunk  it  we'll  proceed  to  our  experiment. 
Leave  the  coffee.  Pitting,  and  don't  disturb  us 
again." 

•'  No,  sir." 

"  I    won't    have    it    black    to-night,"    said    the 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  309 

Father,  "  plenty  of  milk,  please.  I  don't  want  my 
nerves  played  upon." 

"Suppose  we  don't  take  coffee  at  all?"  said 
Guildea.  "  If  we  do  you  may  trot  out  the  theory 
that  we  are  not  in  a  perfectly  normal  condition. 
I  know  you,  Murchison,  devout  Priest  and  devout 
sceptic." 

The  Father  laughed  and  pushed  away  his  cup. 

"  Very  well,  then.     No  coffee." 

"  One  cigarette,  and  then  to  business." 

The  grey  blue  smoke  curled  up. 

"  What  arc  we  going  to  do  ?  "  said  the  Father. 

He  was  sitting  bolt  upright  as  if  ready  for 
action.  Indeed  there  was  no  suggestion  of  repose 
in  the  attitudes  of  cither  of  the  men. 

"  Hide  ourselves,  and  watch  Napoleon.  By 
the  way — that  reminds  me." 

He  got  up,  went  to  a  corner  of  the  room, 
picked  up  a  piece  of  green  baize  and  threw  it 
over  the  cage. 

"  I'll  pull  that  off  when  we  arc  hidden." 

"And  tell  me  first  if  you  have  had  any  mani- 
festation of  this  supposed  presence  during  the 
last  few  days?  " 

"Merely  an  increasingly  intense  sensation  of 
something  here,  perpetually  watching  mc,  per- 
petually  attending  to  all  my  doings." 

"  Do  you  feel  that  it  follows  you  about?" 

"  Not  always.  It  was  in  this  room  when  you 
arrived.  It  is  here  now — I  feel.  IJut,  in  goin^ 
down  to  dinner,  we  seemed  to  get  away  from  it. 


310  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

The  conclusion  is  that  it  remained  here.  Don't 
let  us  talk  about  it  just  now." 

They  spoke  of  other  things  till  their  cigarettes 
were  finished.  Then,  as  they  threw  away  the 
smouldering  ends,  Guildea  said, 

"  Now,  Murchison,  for  the  sake  of  this  experi- 
ment, I  suggest  that  we  should  conceal  ourselves 
behind  the  curtains  on  either  side  of  the  cage,  so 
that  the  bird's  attention  may  not  be  drawn 
towards  us  and  so  distracted  from  that  which  we 
want  to  know  more  about.  I  will  pull  away  the 
green  baize  when  we  are  hidden.  Keep  perfectly 
still,  watch  the  bird's  proceedings,  and  tell  me 
afterwards  how  you  feel  about  them,  how  you 
explain  them.     Tread  softly.' 

The  Father  obeyed,  and  they  stole  towards 
the  curtains  that  fell  before  the  two  windows. 
The  Father  concealed  himself  behind  those  on 
the  left  of  the  cage,  the  Professor  behind  those 
on  the  right.  The  latter,  as  soon  as  they  were 
hidden,  stretched  out  his  arm,  drew  the  baize 
down  from  the  cage,  and  let  it  fall  on  the  floor. 

The  parrot,  which  had  evidently  fallen  asleep 
in  the  warm  darkness,  moved  on  its  perch  as  the 
light  shone  upon  it,  ruffled  the  feathers  round  its 
throat,  and  lifted  first  one  foot  and  then  the 
other.  It  turned  its  head  round  on  its  supple, 
and  apparently  elastic,  neck,  and,  diving  its  beak 
into  the  down  upon  its  back,  made  some  search- 
ing investigations  with,  as  it  seemed,  a  satisfac- 
tory   result,   for   it    soon    lifted    its   head  again, 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  311 

glanced  around  its  cage,  and  began  to  address  it- 
self to  a  nut  which  had  been  fixed  between  the 
bars  for  its  refreshment.  With  its  curved  beak 
it  felt  and  tapped  the  nut,  at  first  gently,  then 
with  severity.  Finally  it  plucked  the  nut  from 
the  bars,  seized  it  with  its.rough,  gray  toes,  and, 
holding  it  down  firmly  on  the  perch,  cracked  it 
and  pecked  out  its  contents,  scattering  some  on 
the  ."oor  of  the  cage  and  letting  the  fractured 
shell  fall  into  the  china  bath  that  was  fixed 
against  the  bars.  This  accomplished,  the  bird 
paused  meditatively,  extended  one  leg  back- 
wards, and  went  through  an  elaborate  process  of 
wing-stretching  that  made  it  look  as  if  it  were 
lopsided  and  deformed.  With  its  head  reversed, 
it  again  applied  itself  to  a  subtle  and  exhaustive 
search  among  the  feathers  of  its  wing.  This 
time  its  investigation  seemed  interminable,  and 
Father  Murchisonhad  time  to  realise  the  absurd- 
ity of  the  whole  position,  and  to  wonder  why  he 
had  lent  himself  to  it.  Yet  he  did  not  find  his 
sense  of  humour  laughing  at  it.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  smitten  by  a  sudden  gust  of  horror. 
When  he  was  talking  to  his  friend  and  watching 
him,  the  Professor's  manner,  generally  so  calm, 
even  so  prosaic,  vouched  for  the  truth  of  his 
story  and  the  well-adjusted  balance  of  his  mind. 
liut  when  he  was  hidden  this  was  not  so.  And 
Father  Murchison,  standing  behind  his  curtain, 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  unconcerned  Napoleon, 
began    to    whisper    to    himself    the    word — mad- 


312  TONGUES   OF  CONSCIENCE. 

ness,  with  a  quickening  sensation  of  pity  and  of 
dread. 

The  parrot  sharply  contracted  one  wing, 
ruffled  the  feathers  around  its  throat  again,  then 
extended  its  other  leg  backwards,  and  proceeded 
to  the  cleaning  of  its  other  wing.  In  the  still 
room  the  dry  sound  of  the  feathers  being  spread 
was  distinctly  audible.  Father  Murchison  saw 
the  blue  curtains  behind  which  Guildea  stood 
tremble  slightly,  as  if  a  breath  of  wind  had 
come  through  the  window  they  shrouded.  The 
clock  in  the  far  room  chimed,  and  a  coal  dropped 
into  the  grate,  making  a  noise  like  dead  leaves 
stirring  abruptly  on  hard  ground.  And  again  a 
gust  of  pity  and  of  dread  swept  over  the  Father. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  behaved  very 
foolishly,  if  not  wrongly,  in  encouraging  what 
must  surely  be  the  strange  dementia  of  his  friend. 
He  ought  to  have  declined  to  lend  himself  to  a 
proceeding  that,  ludicrous,  even  childish  in  itself, 
might  well  be  dangerous  in  the  encouragement  it 
gave  to  a  diseased  expectation.  Napoleon's  pro- 
truding leg,  extended  wing  and  twisted  neck,  his 
busy  and  unconscious  devotion  to  the  arrangement 
of  his  person,  his  evident  sensation  of  complete 
loneliness,  most  comfortable  solitude,  brought 
home  with  vehemence  to  the  Father  the  undigni- 
fied buffoonery  of  his  conduct ;  the  more  piteous 
buffoonery  of  his  friend.  He  seized  the  curtains 
with  his  hands  and  was  about  to  thrust  them 
aside  and  issue  forth  when  an  abrupt  movem.ent 
of    the    parrot  stopped    him.     The    bird,    as    if 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  313 

sharply  attracted  by  something,  paused  in  its 
pecking,  and,  with  its  head  still  bent  backward  and 
twisted  sideways  on  its  neck,  seemed  to  listen  in- 
tently. Its  round  eye  looked  glistening  and 
strained  like  the  eye  of  a  disturbed  pigeon.  Con- 
tracting its  wing,  it  lifted  its  head  and  sat  for  a  mo- 
ment erect  on  its  perch,  shifting  its  feet  mechan- 
ically up  and  down,  as  if  a  dawning  excitement 
produced  in  it  an  uncontrollable  desire  of  move- 
ment. Then  it  thrust  its  head  forward  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  further  room  and  remained  per- 
fectly still.  Its  attitude  so  strongly  suggested 
the  concentration  of  its  attention  on  something 
immediately  before  it  that  Father  Murchison  in- 
stinctively stared  about  the  room,  half  expecting 
to  sec  Pitting  advance  softly,  having  entered 
through  the  hidden  door.  He  did  not  come,  and 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  chamber.  Neverthe- 
less, the  parrot  was  obviously  getting  excited 
and  increasingly  attentive.  It  bent  its  head 
lower  and  lower,  stretching  out  its  neck  until, 
almost  falling  from  the  perch,  it  half  extended 
its  wings,  raising  them  slightly  from  its  back,  as 
if  about  to  take  flight,  and  fluttering  them  rap- 
idly up  and  down.  It  continued  this  fluttering 
movement  for  what  seemed  to  the  Father  an  im- 
mense time.  At  length,  raising  its  wings  as  far 
as  possible,  it  dropped  them  slowly  and  deliber- 
ately down  to  its  back,  caught  hold  of  the  edge 
of  its  bath  with  its  beak,  hoisted  itself  on  to  the 
floor  of  the  cage,  waddled  to  the  bars,  thrust  its 


314  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

floor  of  the  cage,  waddled  to  the  bars,  thrust  its 
head  against  them,  and  stood  quite  still  in  the 
exact  attitude  it  always  assumed  when  its  head 
was  being  scratched  by  the  Professor.  So  com- 
plete was  the  suggestion  of  this  delight  conveyed 
by  the  bird  that  Father  Murchison  felt  as  if  he 
saw  a  white  finger  gently  pushed  among  the  soft 
feathers  of  its  head,  and  he  was  seized  by  a  most 
strong  conviction  that  something,  unseen  by  him 
but  seen  and  welcomed  by  Napoleon,  stood  im- 
mediately before  the  cage. 

The  parrot  presently  withdrew  its  head,  as  if  the 
coaxing  finger  had  been  lifted  from  it,  and  its 
pronounced  air  of  acute  physical  enjoyment  faded 
into  one  of  marked  attention  and  alert  curiosity. 
Pulling  itself  up  by  the  bars  it  climbed  again  upon 
its  perch,  sidled  to  the  left  side  of  the  cage,  and 
began  apparently  to  watch  something  with  pro- 
found interest.  It  bowed  its  head  oddly,  paused 
for  a  moment,  then  bowed  its  head  again.  Father 
Murchison  found  himself  conceiving — from  this 
elaborate  movement  of  the  head — a  distinct  idea 
of  a  personality.  The  bird's  proceedings  sug- 
gested extreme  sentimentality  combined  with 
that  sort  of  weak  determination  which  is  often  the 
most  persistent.  •  Such  weak  determination  is  a 
very  common  attribute  of  persons  who  are  par- 
tially idiotic.  Father  Murchison  was  moved  to 
think  of  these  poor  creatures  who  will  often,  so 
strangely  and  unreasonably,  attach  themselves 
with  persistence  to  those  who  love  them  least. 
Like  many  priests,  he  had  had  some  experience  of 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  315 

them,  for  the  amorous  idiot  is  peculiarly  sensitive 
to  the  attraction  of  preachers.  This  bowing  move- 
ment of  the  parrot  recalled  to  his  memory  a  ter- 
rible, pale  woman  who  for  a  time  haunted  all 
churches  in  which  he  ministered,  who  was  perpet- 
ually endeavouring  to  catch  his  eye,  and  who 
always  bent  her  head  with  an  obsequious  and  cun- 
ningly conscious  smile  when  she  did  so.  The  par- 
rot went  on  bowing,  making  a  short  pause  between 
each  genuflection,  as  if  it  waited  for  a  signal  to  be 
given  that  called  into  play  its  imitative  faculty. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it's  imitating  an  idiot,"  Father  Mur- 
chison  caught  himself  saying  as  he  watched.  "  A 
love-sick  idiot." 

And  he  looked  again  about  the  room,  but  saw 
nothing  ;  except  the  furniture,  the  dancing  fire, 
and  the  serried  ranks  of  tlie  books.  Presently 
the  parrot  ceased  from  bowing,  and  assumed  the 
concentrated  and  stretched  attitude  of  one  listen- 
ing very  keenly.  He  opened  his  beak,  showing 
his  black  tongue,  shut  it,  then  opened  it  again. 
The  Father  thought  he  was  going  to  speak,  but 
he  remained  silent,  although  it  was  obvious  that 
he  was  trying  to  bring  out  something.  He  bowed 
again  two  or  three  times,  paused,  and  then,  again 
opening  his  beak,  made  some  remark.  The 
Father  could  not  distinguish  any  words,  but  the 
voice  was  sickly  and  disagreeable,  a  cooing  and, 
at  the  same  time,  querulous  voice,  like  a  woman's, 
he  thought.  And  he  put  his  car  nearer  to  the 
curtain,  listening  with  almost  feverish  attention. 


3t6         tongues  of  conscience. 

added  to  it  a  sidling  movement,  affectionate  and 
affected,  like  the  movement  of  a  silly  and  eager 
thing,  nestling  up  to  someone,  or  giving  someone 
a  gentle  and  furtive  nudge.  Again  the  Father 
thought  of  that  terrible,  pale  woman  who  had 
haunted  churches.  Several  times  he  had  come 
upon  her  waiting  for  him  after  evening  services. 
Once  she  had  hung  her  head  smiling,  had  lolled 
out  her  tongue  and  pushed  against  him  sideways 
in  the  dark.  He  remembered  how  his  flesh  had 
shrunk  from  the  poor  thing,  the  sick  loathing  of 
her  that  he  could  not  banish  by  remembering 
that  her  mind  was  all  astray.  The  parrot  paused, 
listened,  opened  his  beak,  and  again  said  some- 
thing in  the  same  dove-like,  amorous  voice,  full 
of  sickly  suggestion  and  yet  hard,  even  danger- 
ous, in  its  intonation.  A  loathsome  voice,  the 
Father  thought  it.  But  this  time,  although  he 
heard  the  voice  more  distinctly  than  before,  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  it  was  like 
a  woman's  voice  or  a  man's — or  perhaps  a  child's. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  human  voice,  and  yet  oddly 
sexless.  In  order  to  resolve  his  doubt  he  with- 
drew into  the  darkness  of  the  curtains,  ceased  to 
watch  Napoleon  and  simply  listened  with  keen 
attention,  striving  to  forget  that  he  was  listening 
to  a  bird,  and  to  imagine  that  he  was  overhearing 
a  human  being  in  conversation.  After  two  or 
three  minutes'  silence  the  voice  spoke  again,  and 
at  some  length,  apparently  repeating  several 
times  an  affectionate  series  of  ejaculations  with  a 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  3^7 

cooing  emphasis  that  was  unutterably  mawkish 
and  offensive.  The  sickliness  of  the  voice,  its  fall- 
ing intonations  and  its  strange  indelicacy,  com- 
bined with  a  die-away  softness  and  meretricious 
refinement,  made  the  Father's  flesh  creep.  Yet 
he  could  not  distinguish  any  words,  nor  could  he 
decide  on  the  voice's  sex  or  age.  One  thing 
alone  he  was  certain  of  as  he  stood  still  in  the 
darkness, — that  such  a  sound  could  only  proceed 
from  something  peculiarly  loathsome,  could  only 
express  a  personality  unendurably  abominable  to 
him,  if  not  to  everybody.  The  voice  presently 
failed,  in  a  sort  of  husky  gasp,  and  there  was 
a  prolonged  silence.  It  was  broken  by  the  Pro- 
fessor, who  suddenly  pulled  away  the  curtains 
that  hid  the  Father  and  said  to  him  : 

"  Come  out  now,  and  look." 

The  Father  came  into  the  light,  blinking, 
glanced  towards  the  cage,  and  saw  Napoleon 
poised  motionless  on  one  foot  with  his  head 
under  his  wing.  Me  appeared  to  be  asleep. 
The  Professor  was  pale,  and  his  mobile  lips  were 
drawn  into  an  expression  of  supreme  disgust. 

"  P'augh  !  "  he  said. 

He  walked  to  the  windows  of  the  further  room, 
pulled  aside  the  curtains  and  pushed  the  glass 
up,  letting  in  the  air.  The  bare  trees  were  visible 
in  the  grey  gloom  outside.  Guildca  leaned  out 
for  a  minute  drawing  the  night  air  into  his  lungs. 
Presently  he  turned  round  to  the  I'^ather,  and 
exclaimed  abruptly, 


3l8  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"Pestilent!     Isn't  it?" 

"Yes — most  pestilent." 

"  Ever  hear  anything  Hke  it?" 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  Nor  I,  It  gives  me  nausea,  Murchison,  ab- 
solute physical  nausea." 

He  closed  the  window  and  walked  uneasily 
about  the  room. 

"What  d'you  make  of  it?"  he  asked,  over  his 

shoulder. 

"  How  d'you  mean  exactly  ?  " 

"  Is  it  man's,  woman's,  or  child's  voice?  " 

"  I  can't  tell,  I  can't  make  up  my  mind." 

"Nor  I." 

"  Have  you  heard  it  often  ?  " 

"  Yes,  since  I  returned  from  Westgate.  There 
are  never  any  words  that  I  can  distinguish.  What 
a  voice  ! " 

He  spat  into  the  fire. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  down 
in  a  chair.     "  It  turns  my  stomach  — literally." 

"  And  mine,"  said  the  Father,  truly. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  continued  Guildca,  with  a 
high,  nervous  accent,  "  that  there's  no  brain  with 
it,  none  at  all— only  the  cunning  of  idiotcy." 

The  Father  started  at  this  exact  expression  of 
his  own  conviction  by  another. 

"  Why  d'you  start  like  that?"  asked  Guildea, 
with  a  quick  suspicion  which  showed  the  unnatural 
condition  of  his  nerves. 

"  Well,  the  very  same  idea  had  occurred  to  me." 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  319 

"  What  ?  " 

"  That  I  was  listening  to  the  voice  of  something 
idiotic." 

"  Ah  !  That's  the  devil  of  it,  you  know,  to  a  man 
like  me.     I  could  fight  against  brain — but  this  1" 

He  sprang  up  again,  poked  the  fire  violently, 
then  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his  back  to  it, 
and  his  hands  thrust  into  the  high  pockets  of  his 
trousers. 

"  That's  the  voice  of  the  thing  that's  got  into 
my  house,"  he  said.     "  Pleasant,  isn't  it  ?  " 

And  now  there  was  really  horror  in  his  eyes,  and 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  must  get  it  out,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  must 
get  it  out.     But  how?  " 

He  tugged  at  his  short  black  beard  with  a  quiv- 
ering hand. 

"How?"  he  continued.  "For  what  is  it? 
Where  is  it?" 

"  You  feel  it's  here — now?  " 

"  Undoubtedly.  But  I  couldn't  tell  you  in  what 
part  of  the  room." 

He  stared  about,  glancing  rapidly  at  everything. 

"Then  you  consider  yourself  haunted  ?"  said 
Fatlier  Murchison. 

He,  too,  was  mucli  moved  and  disturbed, 
although  he  was  not  conscious  of  ihu  jjrcsence  of 
anything  near  them  in  the  room. 

"  I  have  never  believed  in  any  nonsense  of  that 
kind,  as  you  know,"  Guiklea  answered.  "  I  simply 
state  a  fact  which  I  cannot  understand,  and  which 


J20  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIKNCE. 

is  beginning  to  be  very  painful  to  me.  There  is 
something  here.  But  whereas  most  so-called 
hauntings  have  been  described  to  me  as  inimical, 
what  I  am  conscious  of  is  that  I  am  admired, 
loved,  desired.  This  is  distinctly  horrible  to  me, 
Murchison,  distinctly  horrible." 

Father  Murchison  suddenly  remembered  the 
first  evening  he  had  spent  with  Guildea,  and  the 
latter's  expression  almost  of  disgust,  at  the  idea  of 
receiving  warm  affection  from  anyone.  In  the 
light  of  that  long  ago  conversation  the  present 
event  seemed  supremely  strange,  and  almost  like 
a  punishment  for  an  offence  committed  by  the 
Professor  against  humanity.  But,  looking  up  at 
his  friend's  twitching  face,  the  Father  resolved  not 
to  be  caught  in  the  net  of  his  hideous  belief. 

"  There  can  be  nothing  here,"  he  said.  "  It's 
impossible." 

"  What  does  that  bird  imitate,  then?" 
"  The  voice  of  someone  who  has  been  here." 
"  Within  the  last  week  then.  For  it  never  spoke 
like  that  before,  and  mind,  I  noticed  that  it  was 
watching  and  striving  to  imitate  something  before 
I  went  away,  since  the  night  that  I  went  into  the 
Park,  only  since  then." 

"  Somebody  with  a  voice  like  that  must  have 
been  here  while  you  were  away,"  Father  Murchi- 
son repeated,  with  a  gentle  obstinacy. 
"  I'll  soon  find  out." 

Guildea    pressed    the    bell.       Pitting    stole    in 
almost  immediately. 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  32 1 

**  Pitting,"  said  the  Professor,  speaking  in  a  high, 
sharp  voice,  "  did  anyone  come  into  this  room 
during  my  absence  at  the  sea  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  sir,  except  the  maids — and  me. 

If 

sir. 

"  Not  a  soul  ?     You  are  certain  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  certain,  sir." 

The  cold  voice  of  the  butler  sounded  surprised, 
almost  resentful.  The  Professor  flung  out  his 
hand  towards  the  cage. 

"  Has  the  bird  been  here  the  whole  time?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  He  was  not  moved,  taken  elsewhere,  even  for 
a  moment  ?  " 

Pitting's  pale  face  began  to  look  almost  expres- 
sive, and  his  lips  were  pursed. 

"  Certainly  not,  sir." 

"  Thank  you.     That  will  do." 

The  butler  retired,  moving  with  a  sort  of  osten- 
tatious rectitude.  When  he  had  reached  the  door, 
and  was  just  going  out,  his  master  called, 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Pitting." 

The  butler  paused.  Guildea  bit  his  lips,  tugged 
at  his  beard  uneasily  two  or  three  times,  and  then 
said, 

"Have  you  noticed — cr — the  parrot  talking 
lately  in  a — a  very  peculiar,  very  disagreeable 
voice  r 

"  Yes,  sir — a  soft  voice  like,  sir." 

"  Ha  !     Since  when  ?  " 

"  Since  vou  went  away,  !-ir.      He's  always  at  it." 


322  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"  Exactly.  Well,  and  what  did  you  think  of 
it?" 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  about  his  talking  in  this 
voice  ? 

"  Oh,  that  it's  only  his  play,  sir." 

"  I  see.     That's  all.  Pitting." 

The  butler  disappeared  and  closed  the  door 
noiselessly  behind  him. 

Guildea  turned  his  eyes  on  his  friend. 

"There,  you  see  !"  he  ejaculated. 

"  It's  certainly  very  odd,"  said  the  Father. 
"  Very  odd  indeed.  You  are  certain  you  have  no 
maid  who  talks  at  all  like  that  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Murchison  !  Would  you  keep  a  serv- 
ant with  such  a  voice  about  you  for  two  days  ?  " 

"No." 

"  My  housemaid  has  been  with  me  for  five  years, 
my  cook  for  seven.  You've  heard  Pitting  speak. 
The  three  of  them  make  up  my  entire  household. 
A  parrot  never  speaks  in  a  voice  it  has  not  heard. 
Where  has  it  heard  that  voice  ?  " 

"  But  we  hear  nothing?  " 

"  No.  Nor  do  we  see  anything.  But  it  does. 
It  feels  something  too.  Didn't  you  observe  it 
presenting  its  head  to  be  scratched  ?  " 

"  Certainly  it  seemed  to  be  doing  so." 

"  It  was  doing  so." 

Father  Murchison  said  nothing.  He  was  full 
of  increasing  discomfort  that  almost  amounted  to 
apprehension. 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  323 

"  Are  you   convinced  ?  "    said   Guildea,   rather 

irritably. 

"  No.     The  whole  matter  is  very  strange.     But 

till  I  hear,  see,  or  feel — as  you  do — the  presence 

of  something,  I  cannot  believe." 
"  You  mean  that  you  will  not  ?" 
"  Perhaps.     Well,  it  is  time  I  went." 
Guildea  did  not  try  to  detain  him,  but  said,  as 

he  let  him  out, 

"  Do  me  a  favour,  come  again  to-morrow  night." 
The  Father  had  an  engagement.    He  hesitated, 

looked  into  the  Professor's  face  and  said, 

"  I    will.     At    nine   I'll    be    with  you.     Good- 
night." 

When  he  was  on  the  pavement  he  felt  relieved. 

He  turned  round,  saw  Guildea  stepping  into  his 

passage,  and  shivered. 


V. 

Father  Murchison  walked  all  the  way  home 
to  Bird  Street  that  iii^^ht.  He  required  exercise 
after  the  strange  and  disagreeable  evening  he  had 
spent,  an  evening  upon  which  lie  looked  back  al- 
ready as  a  man  looks  back  upon  a  nightmare.  In 
his  ears,  as  he  walked,  sounded  the  gentle  and  in- 
tolerable voice.  Even  the  memory  of  it  caused 
him  physical  discomfort,  lie  tried  to  put  it  from 
him,  and  to  consider  the  whole  matter  calmly. 
The  Professor  had  offered  his  proof  that  there  was 


324  TONGUES    OF    CONSCIENCE. 

some  strange  presence  in  his  house.  Could  any 
reasonable  man  accept  such  proof?  Father  Mur- 
chison  told  himself  that  no  reasonable  man  could 
accept  it.  The  parrot's  proceedings  were,  no 
doubt,  extraordinary.  The  bird  had  succeeded  in 
producing  an  extraordinary  illusion  of  an  invisible 
presence  in  the  room.  But  that  there  really  was 
such  a  presence  the  Father  insisted  on  denying  to 
himself.  The  devoutly  religious,  those  who  be- 
lieve implicitly  in  the  miracles  recorded  in  the 
Bible,  and  who  regulate  their  lives  by  the  mes- 
sages they  suppose  themselves  to  receive  directly 
from  the  Great  Ruler  of  a  hidden  World,  are  sel- 
dom inclined  to  accept  any  notion  of  supernatural 
intrusion  into  the  affairs  of  daily  life.  They  put 
it  from  them  with  anxious  determination.  They 
regard  it  fixedly  as  hocus-pocus,  childish  if  not 
wicked. 

Father  Murchison  inclined  to  the  normal  view 
of  the  devoted  churchman.  He  was  determined 
to  incline  to  it.  He  could  not — so  he  now  told 
himself — accept  the  idea  that  his  friend  was  being 
supernaturally  punished  for  his  lack  of  humanity, 
his  deficiency  in  affection,  by  being  obliged  to  en- 
dure the  love  of  some  horrible  thing,  which  could 
not  be  seen,  heard,  or  handled.  Nevertheless, 
retribution  did  certainly  seem  to  wait  upon  Guil- 
dea's  condition.  That  which  he  had  unnaturally 
dreaded  and  shrunk  from  in  his  thought  he  seemed 
to  be  now  forced  unnaturally  to  sufTer.  The 
Father  prayed  for  his  friend  that  night  before  the 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  325 

little,  humble  altar  in  the  barely-furnished,  cell- 
like chamber  where  he  slept. 

On  the  following  evening,  when  he  called  in 
Hyde  Park  Place,  the  door  was  opened  by  the 
housemaid,  and  Father  Murchison  mounted  the 
stairs,  wondering  what  had  become  of  Pitting. 
He  was  met  at  the  library  door  by  Guildea  and 
was  painfully  struck  by  the  alteration  in  his  ap- 
pearance. His  face  was  ashen  in  hue,  and  there 
were  lines  beneath  his  eyes.  The  eyes  themselves 
looked  excited  and  horribly  forlorn.  His  hair 
and  dress  were  disordered  and  his  lips  twitched 
continually,  as  if  he  were  shaken  by  some  acute 
nervous  apprehension. 

"What  has  become  of  Pitting?"  asked  the 
Father,  grasping  Guildea's  hot  and  feverish  hand. 

"  He  has  left  my  service." 

"Left  your  service!"  exclaimed  the  Father  in 
utter  amazement. 

"Yes,  this  afternoon." 

"  May  one  ask  why  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  It's  all  part  and  parcel 
of  this — this  most  odious  business.  You  remember 
f)nce  discussing  the  relations  men  ought  to  have 
with  their  servants?  " 

"Ah  !  "  cried  the  Father,  with  a  flash  of  inspira- 
tion.    "  The  crisis  has  occurred  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  Professor,  with  a  bitter 
smile.  "  The  crisis  has  occurred.  I  called  upon 
Pitting  to  be  a  man  and  a  brother.  He  re- 
sponded by  declining  the  invitation.     I  upbraided 


326  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

him.  He  gave  me  warning.  I  paid  him  his  wage, 
and  told  him  he  could  go  at  once.  And  he  has 
gone.  What  arc  you  looking  at  me  like  that 
for?" 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  Father  Murchison,  hastily 
dropping  his  eyes,  and  looking  away.  "  Why," 
he  added.     "  Napoleon  is  gone  too." 

"  I  sold  him  to-day  to  one  of  those  shops  in 
Shaftesbury  Avenue." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  He  sickened  me  with  his  abominable  imitation 
of — his  intercourse  with — well,  you  know  what 
he  was  at  last  night.  Besides,  I  have  no  further 
need  of  his  proof  to  tell  me  I  am  not  dreaming. 
And,  being  convinced  as  I  now  am,  that  all  I  have 
thought  to  have  happened  has  actually  happened, 
I  care  very  little  about  convincing  others.  For- 
give me  for  saying  so,  Murchison,  but  I  am  now 
certain  that  my  anxiety  to  make  you  believe  in 
the  presence  of  something  here  really  arose  from 
some  faint  doubt  on  that  subject — within  myself. 
All  doubt  has  now  vanished." 

"  Tell  me  why.  " 

"I  will." 

Both  men  were  standing  by  the  fire.  They 
continued  to  stand  while  Guildea  went  on, 

"  Last  night  I  felt  it." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  the  Father. 

"  I  say  that  last  night,  as  I  was  going  upstairs 
to  bed,  I  felt  something  accompanying  me  and 
nestling  up  against  me." 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  327 

"  How  horrible  ! "  exclaimed  the  Father,  invol- 
untarily. 

Guildea  smiled  drearily. 

"  I  will  not  deny  the  horror  of  it.  I  cannot, 
since  I  was  compelled  to  call  on  Pitting  for  assist- 
ance." 

"  But — tell  me — what  was  it,  at  least  what  did 
it  seem  to  be?  " 

"  It  seemed  to  be  a  human  being.  It  seemed, 
I  say ;  and  what  I  mean  exactly  is  that  the  effect 
upon  me  was  rather  that  of  human  contact  than 
of  anything  else.  But  I  could  see  nothing,  hear 
nothing.  Only,  three  times,  I  felt  this  gentle,  but 
determined,  push  against  me,  as  if  to  coax  me  and 
to  attract  my  attention.  The  first  time  it  happened 
I  was  on  the  landing  outside  this  room,  with  my 
foot  on  the  first  stair.  I  will  confesstoyou,  Mur- 
chison,  that  I  bounded  upstairs  like  one  pursued. 
That  is  the  shameful  truth.  Just  as  I  was  about 
to  enter  my  bedroom,  however,  I  felt  the  thing 
entering  with  me,  and,  as  I  have  said,  squeezing, 
with  loathsome,  sickening  tenderness,  against  my 
side.     Then " 

He  paused,  turned  towards  the  fire  and  leaned 
his  head  on  his  arm.  The  Thither  was  greatly 
moved  by  the  strange  helplessness  and  despair  of 
the  attitude.  He  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on 
Guildea's  shoulder. 

"  Then  ?  " 

Guildea  lifted  his  head.  He  looked  painfully 
abashed. 


328  TONGUES  OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  Then,  Murchison,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  broke 
down,  suddenly,  unaccountably,  in  a  way  I  should 
have  thought  wholly  impossible  to  me.  I  struck 
out  with  my  hands  to  thrust  the  thing  away.  It 
pressed  more  closely  to  me.  The  pressure,  the 
contact  became  unbearable  to  me.  I  shouted  out 
for  Pitting.  I — I  believe  I  must  have  cried — 
*  Help.' " 

"  He  came,  of  course?  " 

"  Yes,  with  his  usual  soft,  unemotional  quiet. 
His  calm — its  opposition  to  my  excitement  of 
disgust  and  horror — must,  I  suppose,  have  irritated 
me.     I  was  not  myself,  no,  no  !  " 

He  stopped  abruptly.     Then — 

"  But  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that,"  he  added, 
with  most  piteous  irony. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  Pitting  ?  " 

"  I  said  that  he  should  have  been  quicker.  He 
begged  my  pardon.  His  cold  voice  really  mad- 
dened mc,  and  I  burst  out  into  some  foolish,  con- 
temptible diatribe,  called  him  a  machine,  taunted 
him,  then — as  I  felt  that  loathsome  thing  nestling 
once  more  to  me, — begged  him  to  assist  me,  to 
stay  with  me,  not  to  leave  me  alone — I  meant  in 
the  company  of  my  tormentor.  Whether  he  was 
frightened,  or  whether  he  was  angry  at  my  unjust 
and  violent  manner  and  speech  a  moment  before, 
I  don't  know.  In  any  case  he  answered  that  he 
was  engaged  as  a  butler,  and  not  to  sit  up  all  night 
with  people.  I  suspect  he  thought  I  had  taken 
too  much  to  drink.     No  doubt  that  was  it.     I  be- 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  329 

Heve  I  swore  at  him  as  a  coward — I  !  This  morn- 
ing he  said  he  wished  to  leave  my  service.  I  gave 
him  a  month's  wages,  a  good  character  as  a  but- 
ler, and  sent  him  off  at  once." 

"  But  the  night  ?     How  did  you  pass  it  ?  " 
"  I  sat  up  all  night." 
"  Where  ?     In  your  bedroom  ?  " 
"  Yes — with  the  door  open — to  let  it  go." 
"  You  felt  that  it  stayed  ?  " 
"  It  never  left  me  for  a  moment,  but  it  did  not 
touch  me  again.    When  it  was  light  I  took  a  bath, 
lay  down  for  a  little  while,  but  did  not  close  my 
eyes.     After  breakfast  I  had  the  explanation  with 
Pitting  and  paid  him.    Then  I  came  up  here.    My 
nerves  were  in  a  very  shattered  condition.     Well, 
I  sat  down,  tried  to  write,  to  think.     But   the  si- 
lence was  broken   in  the  most   abominable  man<. 
ner. 

"How?" 

"  By  the  murmur  of  that  appalling  voice,  that 
voice  of  a  love-sick  idiot,  sickly  but  determined. 
Ugh ! " 

He  shuddered  in  every  limb.  Then  he  pulled 
himself  together,  assumed,  with  a  self-conscious 
effort,  his  most  determined,  most  aggressive,  man- 
ner, and  added  : 

"  I  couldn't  stand  that.  I  had  come  to  the  end 
of  my  tether  ;  so  I  sprang  up,  ordered  a  cab  to  be 
called,  seized  the  cage  and  drove  with  it  to  a  bird 
shop  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  There  I  sold  the 
parrot   for  a    trifle.     I    think,   Murchison,  that    I 


330  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

must  have  been  nearly  mad  then,  for,  as  I  came 
out  of  the  wretched  shop,  and  stood  for  an  in- 
stant on  the  pavement  among  the  cages  of  rab- 
bits, guinea-pigs,  and  puppy  dogs,  I  laughed 
aloud.  I  felt  as  if  a  load  was  lifted  from  my 
shoulders,  as  if  in  selling  that  voice  I  had  sold 
the  cursed  thing  that  torments  me.  But  when  I 
got  back  to  the  house  it  was  here.  It's  here  now. 
I  suppose  it  will  always  be  here." 

He  shuffled  his  feet  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the 
fire. 

"  What  on  earth  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  said.  "  I'm 
ashamed  of  myself,  Murchison,  but — but  I  sup- 
pose there  are  things  in  the  world  that  certain 
men  simply  can't  endure.  Well,  I  can't  endure 
this,  and  there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

He  ceased.  The  Father  was  silent.  In  pres- 
ence of  this  extraordinary  distress  he  did  not 
know  what  to  say.  He  recognised  the  useless- 
ness  of  attempting  to  comfort  Guildea,  and  he  sat 
with  his  eyes  turned,  almost  moodily,  to  the 
ground.  And  while  he  sat  there  he  tried  to  give 
himself  to  the  influences  within  the  room,  to  feel 
all  that  was  within  it.  He  even,  half-unconsci- 
ously,  tried  to  force  his  imagination  to  play  tricks 
with  him.  But  he  remained  totally  unaware  of 
any  third  person  with  them.     At  length  he  said, 

"  Guildea,  I  cannot  pretend  to  doubt  the  reality 
of  your  misery  here.  You  must  go  away,  and  at 
once.     When  is  your  Paris  lecture?" 

"Next  week.     In  nine  days  from  now." 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  33 1 

"  Go  to  Paris  to-morrow  then,  you  say  you  have 
never  had  any  consciousness  that  this — this  thing 
pursued  you  beyond  your  own  front  door!  " 

"  Never — hitherto." 

"  Go  to-morrow  morning.  Stay  away  till  after 
your  lecture.  And  then  let  us  see  if  the  afTair  is 
at  an  end.     Hope,  my  dear  friend,  hope." 

He  had  stood  up.  Now  he  clasped  the  Profes- 
sor's hand. 

"  See  all  your  friends  in  Paris.  Seek  distrac- 
tions.    I  would  ask  you  also  to  seek — other  help." 

He  said  the  last  words  with  a  gentle,  earnest 
gravity  and  simplicity  that  touched  Guildea,  who 
returned  his  handclasp  almost  warmly. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said.  "  I'll  catch  the  ten  o'clock 
train,  and  to-night  I'll  sleep  at  an  hotel,  at  the 
Grosvenor — that's  close  to  the  station.  It  will  be 
more  convenient  for  the  train." 

As  Father  Murchison  went  home  that  night  he 
kept  thinking  of  that  sentence  :  "  It  will  be  more 
convenient  for  the  train."  The  weakness  in  Guil- 
dea that  had  prompted  its  utterance  appalled  him. 


VI. 

No  letter  came  to  Father  Murchison  from  the 
Professor  during  the  next  few  days,  and  this  silence 
reassured  him,  for  it  seemed  to  betoken  that  all 
was  well.  The  day  of  the  lecture  dawned,  and 
passed.     On  llie  following  morning,   llic  Father 


332  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

eagerly  opened  the  Times,  and  scanned  its  pages 
to  see  if  there  were  any  report  of  the  great  meet- 
ing of  scientific  men  which  Guildeahad  addressed. 
He  glanced  up  and  down  the  columns  with  anx- 
ious eyes,  then  suddenly  his  hands  stiffened  as 
they  held  the  sheets.  He  had  come  upon  the  fol- 
lowing paragraph  : 

"  We  regret  to  announce  that  Professor  Fred- 
eric Guildea  was  suddenly  seized  with  severe  ill- 
ness yesterday  evening  while  addressing  a  scien- 
tific meeting  in  Paris.  It  was  observed  that  he 
looked  very  pale  and  nervous  when  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  Nevertheless,  he  spoke  in  French  fluently 
for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  he  appeared 
to  become  uneasy.  He  faltered  and  glanced 
about  like  a  man  apprehensive,  or  in  severe  dis- 
tress. He  even  stopped  once  or  twice,  and  seemed 
unable  to  go  on,  to  remember  what  he  wished  to 
say.  But,  pulling  himself  together  with  an  obvious 
effort,  he  continued  to  address  the  audience.  Sud- 
denly, however,  he  paused  again,  edged  furtively 
along  the  platform,  as  if  pursued  by  something 
which  he  feared,  struck  out  with  his  hands,  uttered 
a  loud,  harsh  cry  and  fainted.  The  sensation  in 
the  hall  was  indescribable.  People  rose  from  their 
seats.  Women  screamed,  and,  for  a  moment, 
there  was  a  veritable  panic.  It  is  feared  that  the 
Professor's  mind  must  have  temporarily  given  way 
owing  to  overwork.  We  understand  that  he  will 
return   to    England  as  soon   as  possible,  and  we 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  333 

sincerely  hope  that  necessary  rest  and  quiet  will 
soon  have  the  desired  effect,  and  that  he  will  be 
completely  restored  to  health  and  enabled  to  pros- 
ecute further  the  investigations  which  have 
already  so  benefited  the  world." 

The  Father  dropped  the  paper,  hurried  out  into 
Bird  Street,  sent  a  wire  of  inquiry  to  Paris,  and 
received  the  same  day  the  following  reply  :  "  Re- 
turning to-morrow.  Please  call  evening.  Guil- 
dea."  On  that  evening  the  Father  called  in  Hyde 
Park  Place,  was  at  once  admitted,  and  found  Guil- 
dea  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  library,  ghastly  pale, 
with  a  heavy  rug  over  his  knees.  He  looked  like 
a  man  emaciated  by  a  long  and  severe  illness,  and 
in  his  wide  open  eyes  there  was  an  expression  of 
fixed  horror.  The  Father  started  at  the  sight  of 
him,  and  could  scarcely  refrain  from  crying  out. 
He  was  beginning  to  express  his  sympathy  when 
Guildea  stopped  him  with  a  trembling  gesture. 

"  I  know  all  that,"  Guildea  said,  "  I  know. 
This  Paris  affair "  He  faltered  and  stopped. 

"  You  ought  never  to  have  gone,"  said  the 
Father.  "  I  was  wrong.  I  ought  not  to  have  ad- 
vised your  going.     Your  were  not  fit." 

"  I  was  perfectly  fit,"  he  answered,  with  the  irri- 
tability of  sickness.  "  But  I  was — I  was  accom- 
panied by  that  abominable  thing." 

He  glanced  hastily  round  him,  .shifted  his  chai 
and  pulled  the  rug  higher   over  liis  knees.     The 
I'ather  wondered  why  he  was   thus  wrapped   up. 


r 


334  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

For  the  fire  was  bright  and  red  and  the  night  was 
not  very  cold. 

"  I  was  accompanied  to  Paris,"  he  continued, 
pressing  his  upper  teeth  upon  his   lower  lip. 

He  paused  again,  obviously  striving  to  control 
himself.  But  the  effort  was  vain.  There  was  no 
resistance  in  the  man.  He  writhed  in  his  chair 
and  suddenly  burst  forth  in  a  tone  of  hopeless 
lamentation. 

"  Murchison,  this  being,  thing — whatever  it  is — 
no  longer  leaves  me  even  for  a  n.oment.  It  will 
not  stay  here  unless  I  am  here,  for  it  loves  me, 
persistently,  idiotically.  It  accompanied  me  to 
Paris,  stayed  with  me  there,  pursued  me  to  the 
lecture  hall,  pressed  against  me,  caressed  me 
while  I  was  speaking.  It  has  returned  with  me 
here.  It  is  here  now," — he  uttered  a  sharp  cry, — 
"  now,  as  I  sit  here  with  you.  It  is  nestling  up 
to  me,  fawning  upon  me,  touching  my  hands. 
Man,  man,  can't  you  feel  that  it  is  here?" 

"  No,"  the  Father  answered  truly. 

"  I  try  to  protect  myself  from  its  loathsome 
contact,"  Guildea  continued,  with  fierce  excite- 
ment, clutching  the  thick  rug  with  both  hands. 
"  But  nothing  is  of  any  avail  against  it.  Nothing. 
What  is  it  ?  What  can  it  be  ?  Why  should  it 
have  come  to  me  that  night  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  as  a  punishment,"  said  the  Father, 
with  a  quick  softness. 

"For  what?" 

"  You  hated  affection.     You  put  human    feci- 


PROFESSOR  GUILDEA.  335 

ings  aside  with  contempt.  You  had,  you  desired 
to  have,  no  love  for  anyone.  Nor  did  you  desire 
to  receive  any  love  from  anything.  Perhaps  this 
is  a  punishment." 

Guildea  stared  into  his  face. 

"  D'you  believe  that  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Father.  "  But  it  may 
be  so.  Try  to  endure  it,  even  to  welcome  it. 
Possibly  then  the  persecution  will  cease." 

"  I  know  it  means  me  no  harm,"  Guildea  ex- 
claimed, "  it  seeks  me  out  of  affection.  It  was 
led  to  me  by  some  amazing  attraction  which  I  ex- 
•ircise  over  it  ignorantly.  I  know  that.  But  to  a 
nan  of  my  nature  that  is  the  ghastly  part  of  the 
aiattcr.  If  it  would  hate  me,  I  could  bear  it.  If 
it  would  attack  me,  if  it  would  try  to  do  me  some 
dreadful  harm,  I  should  become  a  man  again.  I 
should  be  braced  to  fight  against  it.  But  this 
gentleness,  this  abominable  solicitude,  this  brain- 
less worship  of  an  idiot,  persistent,  sickly,  hor- 
ribly physical,  I  cannot  endure.  What  does  it 
want  of  me?  What  would  it  demand  of  me?  It 
nestles  to  me.  It  leans  against  me.  I  feel  its 
touch,  like  the  touch  of  a  feather,  trembling  about 
my  heart,  as  if  it  sought  to  number  my  pulsations, 
to  find  out  the  inmost  secrets  of  my  impulses  and 
desires.  No  privacy  is  left  to  mc."  lie  sprang 
up  excitedly.  "  I  cannot  withdraw,"  he  cried,  "  I 
cannot  be  alone,  untouched,  unworshipped,  un- 
watchcd  for  even  one-half  second.  Murchison,  I 
am  dying  of  this,  I  am  dyin^;." 


33^  TONGUES    OF   CONSCIENCE. 

He  sank  down  again  in  his  chair,  staring  appre- 
hensively on  all  sides,  with  the  passion  of  some 
blind  man,  deluded  in  the  belief  that  by  his  furi- 
ous and  continued  effort  he  will  attain  sight.  The 
Father  knew  well  that  he  sought  to  pierce  the 
veil  of  the  invisible,  and  have  knowledge  of  the 
thing  that  loved  him. 

"Guildea,"  the  Father  said,  with  insistent  ear- 
nestness, "  try  to  endure  this — do  more — try  to 
give  this  thing  what  it  seeks." 

"  But  it  seeks  my  love." 

"Learn  to  give  it  your  love  and  it  may  go,  hav- 
ing received  what  it  came  for." 

"  T'sh  !  You  talk  as  a  priest.  Suffer  your  per- 
secutors. Do  good  to  them  that  despitefully  use 
you.     You  talk  as  a  priest." 

"  As  a  friend  I  spoke  naturally,  indeed,  right  out 
of  my  heart.  The  idea  suddenly  came  to  me  that 
all  this, — truth  or  seeming,  it  doesn't  matter  which, 
— may  be  some  strange  form  of  lesson.  I  have 
had  lessons — painful  ones.  I  shall  have  many 
more.     If  you  could  welcome " 

"  I  can't !  I  can't !  "  Guildea  cried  fiercely. 
•'  Hatred  !  I  can  give  it  that, — always  that,  noth- 
ing but  that — hatred,  hatred," 

He  raised  his  voice,  glared  into  the  emptiness 
of  the  room,  and  repeated,  "  Hatred  I  " 

As  he  spoke  the  waxen  pallor  of  his  cheeks  in- 
creased, until  he  looked  like  a  corpse  with  living 
eyes.  The  Father  feared  that  he  was  going  to 
collapse  and  faint,  but  suddenly  he  raised  himself 


PROFESSOR    GUILDEA.  337 

upon  his  chair  and  said,  in  a  high  and  keen  voice, 
full  of  suppressed  excitement : 

"  Murchison,  Murchison  !  " 

"  Yes.     What  is  it  ?  " 

An  amazing  ecstasy  shone  in  Guildea's  eyes. 

"  It  wants  to  leave  me,"  he  cried.  "  It  wants  to 
go  !  Don't  lose  a  moment  !  Let  it  out !  The 
window — the  window  !  " 

The  Father,  wondering,  went  to  the  near  win- 
dow, drew  aside  the  curtains  and  pushed  it  open. 
The  branches  of  the  trees  in  the  garden  creaked 
drily  in  the  light  wind.  Guildca  leaned  forward 
on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  There  was  silence  for 
a  moment.  Then  Guildea,  speaking  in  a  rapid 
whisper,  said, 

"  No,  no.  Open  this  door — open  the  hall  door. 
I  feel — I  feel  that  it  will  return  the  way  it  came. 
Make  haste — ah,  go  !  " 

The  Father  obeyed — to  soothe  him,  hurried  to 
the  door  and  opened  it  wide.  Then  he  glanced 
back  at  Guildea.  He  was  standing  up,  bent  for- 
ward. His  eyes  were  glaring  with  eager  expecta- 
tion, and,  as  the  Father  turned,  he  made  a  furious 
gesture  towards  the  passage  with  his  thin  hands. 

The  Father  hastened  out  and  down  the  stairs. 
As  he  descended  in  the  twilight  he  fancied  he 
licard  a  sMght  cry  from  the  room  behintl  him,  but 
he  did  not  pause.  He  flung  the  hall  door  open, 
standing  back  against  the  wall.  After  waiting  a 
moment — to  satisfy  Guildea,  he  was  about  to  close 
the  door  again,  and  had  his  hand  on   it,  when   he 


338  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIEK'CE. 

was  attracted  irresistibly  to  look  forth  towards  the 
park.  The  night  was  lit  by  a  young  moon,  and, 
gazing  through  the  railings,  his  eyes  fell  upon  a 
bench  beyond  them. 

Upon  this  bench  something  was  sitting,  huddled 
together  very  strangely. 

The  Father  remembered  instantly  Guildca's  de- 
scription of  that  former  night,  that  night  of  Ad- 
vent, and  a  sensation  of  horror-stricken  curiosity 
stole  through  him. 

Was  there  then  really  something  that  had  in- 
deed come  to  the  Professor?  And  had  it  finished 
its  work,  fulfilled  its  desire  and  gone  back  to  its 
former  existence  ? 

The  Father  hesitated  a  moment  in  the  doorway. 
Then  he  stepped  out  resolutely  and  crossed  the 
road,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  this  black  or 
dark  object  that  leaned  so  strangely  upon  the 
bench.  He  could  not  tell  yet  what  it  was  like,  but 
he  fancied  it  was  unlike  anything  with  which  his 
eyes  were  acquainted.  He  reached  the  opposite 
path,  and  was  about  to  pass  through  the  gate  in 
the  railings,  when  his  arm  was  brusquely  grasped. 
He  started,  turned  round,  and  saw  a  policeman 
eyeing  him  suspiciously. 

"  What  are  you  up  to?"  said  the  policeman. 

The  Father  was  suddenly  aware  that  he  had  no 
hat  upon  his  head,  and  that  his  appearance,  as  he 
stole  forward  in  his  cassock,  with  his  eyes  intently 
fixed  upon  the  bench  in  the  Park,  was  probably 
unusual  enough  to  excite  suspicion. 


PROFESSOR   GUILDEA.  339 

"  It's  all  right,  policeman,"  he  answered,  quickly, 
thrusting  some  money  into  the  constable's  hand. 

Then,  breaking  from  him,  the  Father  hurried 
towards  the  bench,  bitterly  vexed  at  the  interrup- 
tion. When  he  reached  it  nothing  was  there. 
Guildea's  experience  had  been  almost  exactly  re- 
peated and,  filled  with  unreasonable  disappoint- 
ment, the  Father  returned  to  the  house,  entered 
it,  shut  the  door  and  hastened  up  the  narrow  stair- 
way into  the  library. 

On  the  hearthrug,  close  to  the  fire,  he  found 
Guildea  lying  with  his  head  lolled  against  the  arm- 
chair from  which  he  had  recently  risen.  There 
was  a  shocking  expression  of  terror  on  his  con- 
vulsed face.  On  examining  him  the  Father  found 
that  he  was  dead. 

The  doctor,  who  was  called  in,  said  that  the 
cause  of  death  was  failure  of  the  heart. 

When  Father  Murchison  was  told  this,  he  mur- 
mured : 

"  Failure  of  the  heart !     It  was  that  then  !  " 

He  turned  to  the  doctor  and  said: 

"  Could  it  have  been  prevented  ?  " 

The  doctor  drew  on  his  gloves  and  answered  : 

"  Possibly,  if  it  had  been  taken  in  time.  Weak- 
ness of  the  heart  requires  a  great  deal  of  care. 
The  Professor  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  work. 
He  should  have  lived  very  differently." 

The  I'athcr  nodded. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  sadly. 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  BEGGAR. 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  BEGGAR. 

Nothing  in  life  is  more  rare  than  the  conver- 
sion of  a  person  who  is  **  close  "  about  money  into 
one  generous,  open-handed  and  lavish.  The  spar- 
row will  sooner  become  the  peacock  than  the  miser 
the  spendthrift.  And  if  this  is  so,  if  such  a  trans- 
formation seldom  occurs  in  life,  it  is  even  more 
unusual  for  a  man  or  woman  to  leave  behind  in 
dying  a  manifesto  which  contradicts  in  set  terms 
the  obvious  and  universally  recognized  tendency 
of  their  whole  existence.  Naturally,  therefore,  the 
provisions  of  Mrs.  Errington's  w  ill  surprised  the 
world.  Old  gentlemen  in  Clubs  stared  upon  the 
number  of  the  Illustrated  London  News  which  an- 
nounced the  disposal  of  her  money  as  they  might 
have  stared  upon  the  head  of  Medusa.  The  fid- 
gety seemed  turned  to  stone  as  they  read.  The 
thoughtless  gaped.  As  for  the  thour-htful,  this 
will  drove  them  to  deep  meditation,  and  set  them 
walking  in  a  maze  of  surmises,  from  which  they 
found  no  outlet.  One  or  two,  religiously  inclined, 
recalled  that  saying  concerning  the  rich  individual 
and  the  passage  of  a  camel  through  a  needle's 
eye.  Possibly  it  had  come  home  to  Mrs.  l",rring- 
ton  upon  her  death-bed.  Possibly,  as  her  end 
drew  near  she  had  perceived  herself  tower  to  camel 

343 


344  TONGUES   OF  COXSCIKNCE. 

size,  the  entrance  to  Paradise  shrink  to  the  circum- 
ference which  refuses  to  receive  a  thread  mani- 
pulated by  an  unsteady  hand.  Yes,  yes ;  they 
began  to  expand  in  unctuous  conjecture  that 
merged  into  deliberate  assertion,  when  some  one 
remarked  that  Mrs.  Errington  had  died  in  exactly 
three  minutes  of  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  on 
the  brain.  So  this  comfortable  theory  was  ex- 
ploded. And  no  other  seemed  tenable.  No  other 
explained  the  fact  that  this  wealthy  woman,  noto- 
rious during  her  life  for  her  miserly  disposition, 
her  neglect  of  charity,  her  curious  hatred  of  the 
poor  and  complete  emancipation  from  the  tender 
shackles  of  philanthropy,  bequeathed  at  death  the 
greater  part  of  her  fortune  to  the  destitute  of  Lon- 
don, and  to  the  honest  beggars  whom  fate  persist- 
ently castigates,  whom  even  Labor  declines  to 
accept  as  toilers  at  the  meanest  wage. 

Only  Horace  Errington,  the  dead  woman's  sole 
child,  and  Captain  Hindford,  of  the  Life  Guards, 
exactly  knew  the  truth  of  the  matter.  And  this 
truth  was  so  strange,  and  must  have  seemed  so 
definite  a  lie  to  the  majority  of  mankind,  that  it 
was  never  given  to  the  world.  Not  even  the  res- 
cued poor  who  found  themselves  received  into  the 
Errington  Home  as  into  some  heaven  with  four 
beautiful  walls,  knew  why  there  had  sprung  up 
such  a  home  and  why  they  were  in  it.  The  whole 
affair  was  discussed  ardently  at  the  time,  argued 
about,  contested,  and  dropped.  Mystery  veiled 
it.     Like  many  things  that  happen,  it  remained 


THE    LADY   AND  THE    BEGGAR.  345 

an  inexplicable  enigma  to  the  world.  And  finally, 
the  world  forgot  it.  But  Horace  Errington  re- 
membered it,  more  especially  when  he  heard  light- 
hearted  people  merrily  laughing  at  certain  strange 
shadows  of  things  unseen  which  will,  at  times,  in- 
trude into  the  most  frivolous  societies,  turning  the 
meditative  to  thoughts  deep  as  dark  and  silent- 
flowing  rivers,  the  careless  to  frisky  sneers  and  the 
gibes  which  fly  forth  in  flocks  from  the  dense  un- 
dergrowths  of  ignorance. 

The  Erringtons  were  magnets,  and  irresistibly 
attracted  gold  instead  of  steel.  Mr.  Errington 
died  comparatively  young,  overwhelmed  by  the 
benefits  showered  upon  him  by  Fortune,  which 
continued  to  dog  persistently  the  steps  of  his 
widow,  whom  he  left  with  one  child,  Horace. 
This  boy  was  do-stined  by  his  father's  will  to  be  a 
millionaire,  and  had  no  need  of  any  money  from 
his  mother,  so  that,  eventually,  Mrs.  Errington  did 
him  no  wrong  by  the  bequest  which  so  troubled 
the  curious.  She  was  a  brilliant  and  an  attractive 
woman,  sparkling  as  a  diamond,  and  apparently 
as  hard.  That  she  loved  Horace  there  was  no 
doubt,  and  he  had  adored  her.  Yet  he  could  not 
influence  her  as  most  only  sons  can  influence  their 
mothers.  She  was  liberally  gifted  with  powers  of 
resistance,  and  in  all  directions  opposed  impene- 
trable barriers  to  the  mental  or  spiritual  assaults 
of  those  with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  It 
seemed  impossible  for  Mrs.  Errington  to  receive, 
like  a  waxen  tablet,  a  definite   impression.      She 


346  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

was  so  completely  herself  that  she  walked  the 
world  as  one  clad  in  armor  which  turned  aside 
all  weapons.  This  mi^ht  have  been  partly  the 
reason  why  men  found  her  so  attractive,  partly, 
also,  the  reason  why  Horace  considered  her,  even 
while  he  was  not  yet  acquainted  with  trousers,  as  so 
very  wonderful  among  women. 

Among  many  indifferences,  Mrs.  Errington  in- 
cluded a  definite  indifference  to  the  sufferings  of 
those  less  fortunate  than  herself.  Legacies  came 
to  her  as  often  as  mendicants  to  Victor  Hugo's 

Bishop  of  D .     She  received  them  with  a  quiet 

greediness  so  prettily  concealed  at  first  that  no- 
body called  it  vulgar.  As  time  went  on  this  greedi- 
ness grew  to  gluttony.  Mrs.  Errington  began  to 
feel  that  fatal  influence  which  came  upon  the 
man  who  built  walls  with  his  gold,  and  each  day 
longed  to  see  the  walls  rise  higher  round  him.  A 
passion  for  mere  possession  seized  her  and  domi- 
nated her.  Even,  she  permitted  the  world,  always 
curiously  nosing,  like  a  dog,  in  people's  gutters, 
to  become  aware  of  this  passion.  This  beautifully 
dressed,  gay  and  clever  woman  was  known  to  be 
an  eager  miser  by  her  acquaintance  first,  and  last 
by  her  own  son  Horace.  It  is  true  that  she  spent 
money  on  the  so-called  "  good  things  "  of  life, 
gave  admirable  dinners,  and  would  as  soon  have 
gone  without  clothes  as  without  her  opera-box. 
But  she  practised  an  intense  economy  in  many 
secret  and  some  public  ways,  and,  more  especially, 
she  was  completely  deaf  to  those  appeals  of  suffer- 


THE    LADY    AND  THE    BEGGAR.  347 

ing,  and  sometimes  of  charlatanry,  which  besiege 
our  ears  in  London,  so  full  of  wily  outcasts  and 
of  those  who  are  terribly  in  need.  Mrs.  Erring- 
ton's  name  figured  in  no  charitable  lists.  She 
seldom  even  gave  her  patronage  to  a  bazaar,  and, 
above  all  things,  she  positively  abhorred  the  beg- 
gars who  make  the  streets  and  parks  their  hunting- 
grounds,  who  hover  before  doorsteps,  and  grow 
up  from  the  ground,  like  mustard-seeds,  when  a 
luggage-laden  cab  stops  or  a  carriage  unblessed 
with  a  groom  pauses  before  a  shop. 

Horace  knew  this  hatred  very  well,  so  well  that, 
although  his  nature  was  as  lavish  as  his  mother's 
was  mean,  he  seldom  sought  to  rouse  any  pity  in 
her  pitiless  heart,  or  to  strike  the  rock  from  which 
experience  had  taught  him  that  no  water  would 
gush  out.  Every  habit  of  conduct,  is,  however, 
broken  through  now  and  then,  when  the  moment 
is  exceptional  and  the  soul  is  deeply  stirred.  And 
this  reticent  mood  of  the  boy  when  with  his 
mother  one  day  received  a  shock  which  drove  him 
into  a  contest  with  her,  and  moved  him  to  strive 
against  the  obedience  which  his  love  for  her  ha- 
bitually imposed  upon  him. 

It  was  spring-time.  Horace,  now  sixteen,  and 
long  established  at  Eton,  was  at  home  for  the 
Easter  vacation,  which  he  was  spending  with  Mrs. 
Errington,  not  at  their  country  place,  but  in  her 
town  house  in  Park  Lane.  One  morning,  when 
the  City  was  smiling  with  sunshine,  and  was  so 
full  of  the  breath  of  the  sweet  season  that  in  quiet 


348  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

corners  it  seemed  in  some  strange  and  indefinite 
way  almost  countrified,  Horace  went  into  Mrs. 
Errington's  boudoir  and  begged  her  to  come  out 
for  a  walk  in  the  Park,  where  he  had  already  been 
bicycling  before  breakfast.  When  there  was  no 
question  of  money  she  was  always  ready  to  accede 
to  any  request  of  the  boy's,  and  she  got  up  at  once 
from  her  writing-table — she  was  just  sending  a 
short  note  of  refusal  to  subscribe  to  some  charity 
pressed  upon  her  attention  by  a  hopeful  clergy- 
man— and  went  to  her  room  to  put  on  her  hat. 
Five  minutes  later  she  and  Horace  set  forth. 

Weather  may  have  a  softening  or  a  hardening 
influence  on  the  average  person.  On  Mrs.  Erring- 
ton  it  had  neither.  She  felt  much  the  same  es- 
sentially in  a  thunderstorm  or  in  midsummer 
moonlight,  on  a  black,  frost-bound  winter's  day, 
or  on  such  a  perfect  and  tender  spring  morning  as 
that  on  which  she  now  passed  through  the  park- 
gate  with  her  son.  She  never  drew  weather  into 
her  soul,  but  calmly  recognized  it  as  a  fact  suita- 
ble for  illustration  on  the  first  page  of  the  Daily 
Graphic.  Now  she  walked  gaily  into  the  Row 
with  Horace,  looking  about  her  for  acquaintances. 
She  found  some,  and  would  not  have  been  sorry 
to  linger  with  them.  But  Horace  wanted  her  to 
go  further  afield,  and  accordingly  they  soon  moved 
on  towards  the  Serpentine.  It  was  when  they 
were  just  in  sight  of  the  water  that  they  met  Cap- 
tain Hindford,  already  alluded  to  as  a  man  who 
had  eventually  more  knowledge  than  other  people 


THE    LADY   AND   THE    BEGGAR.         349 

of  the  events  which  led  to  the  drawing-up  of  Mrs. 
Errington's  strange  will.  He  was  one  of  the  many 
men  who  admired  Mrs.  Errington  while  wonder- 
ing at  her  narrow  and  excommunicative  disposi- 
tion. And  he  stopped  to  speak  to  her  with  the 
eager  readiness  which  is  so  flattering  to  a  woman. 
The  spring,  so  much  discussed,  was  lightly  dis- 
cussed again,  and,  by  some  inadvertence,  no  doubt, 
Captain  Hindford,  who  was  almost  as  genial  as  if 
he  had  lived  in  the  days  of  Dickens,  was  led  to 
exclaim — 

"  By  Jove,  Mrs.  Errington,  this  first  sunshine's 
as  seductive  as  a  pretty  child — makes  one  ready 
to  do  anything  !  Why,  I  saw  an  old  crossing- 
sweeper  just  now  sweeping  nothing  at  all — for  it's 
as  dry  as  a  bone,  you  see — and  I  had  to  fork  out 
a  sixpence  ;  encouraged  useless  industry  just  be- 
cause of  the  change  in  the  weather,  'pon  my  word, 
eh  ?  •• 

Mrs.  Errington's  lips  tightened  ever  so  little. 

"  A  great  mistake,  Captain  Hindford,"  she  said 
drily. 

Horace  looked  at  his  mother  with  a  sort  of 
bright,  boyish  curiosity.  Although  he  knew  so 
well  what  her  nature  was  like,  it  did  not  cease  to 
surprise  him. 

"You  think  so  ?"  said  the  Captain.  "Well, 
perhaps,  you're  right ;  I  don't  know.  Daresay 
I've  been  a  fool.  Still,  you  know  a  fool  in  sun- 
shine is  better  than  a  wise  man  in  a  fog ;  'pon  my 
word,  yes,  ch  ?  " 


350  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Mrs.  Errington  did  not  verbally  agree,  and  they 
parted  after  the  Captain  had  accepted  an  invita- 
tion to  dine  quietly  in  Park  Lane  that  evening. 

"  Devilish  odd  woman,  devilish  odd  ! "  was 
Hindford's  comment.  And  he  watched  the 
mother's  and  son's  retreating  figures  with  a  certain 
astonishment. 

"Wonder  what  the  boy  thinks  of  her?"  he 
muttered.  "  Jove,  if  there  isn't  a  beggar  going 
after  them  !     She'll  soon  settle  him  !  " 

And  he  remained  standing  to  watch  the  en- 
counter. From  where  he  stood  he  had  seen  the 
beggar,  who  had  been  half-sitting,  half-lying,  on  a 
bench  facing  the  water,  glance  up  at  Mrs.  Erring- 
ton  and  her  son  as  they  passed,  partially  raise 
himself  up,  gaze  after  them,  and  finally  rise  to  his 
feet  and  follow  their  footsteps.  Hindford  could 
only  see  the  man's  back.  It  was  long,  slightly 
bending,  and  apparently  youngish.  A  thin  but 
scrupulously  neat  coat  of  some  poor  shiny  and 
black  material  covered  it,  and  hung  from  the  man's 
shoulders  loosely,  forming  two  folds  which  were 
almost  like  two  gently  rounded  hills  with  a  shal- 
low valley  running  between  them  up  to  the  blades 
of  the  shoulders.  Certainly  the  coat  didn't  fit 
very  well.  The  Captain  watched,  expecting  to 
see  this  beggar  address  an  appeal  to  Mrs.  Erring- 
ton  or  Horace.  But  apparently  the  man  was  nerv- 
ous or  half-hearted,  for  he  followed  them  slowly, 
without  catching  them  up,  until  the  trio  vanished 
from  view  on  the  bank  of  the  Serpentine. 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  BEGGAR.    35 1 

When  this  disappearance  took  place  the  Captain 
was  conscious  of  an  absurd  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment. He  could  not  understand  why  he  felt  any 
anxiety  to  see  Mrs.  Errington  refuse  a  beggar 
alms.  Yet  he  would  gladly  have  followed,  like  a 
spy,  to  behold  a  commonplace  and  dingy  event. 
Despite  the  apparent  reluctance  of  the  beggar  to 
ply  his  trade,  Hindford  felt  convinced  that  pres- 
ently the  man  would  approach  Mrs.  Errington  and 
be  promptly  sent  about  his  business.  Her  nega- 
tive would,  no  doubt,  be  eager  enough  even  upon 
this  exquisite  and  charitable  morning.  Wishing 
devoutly  that,  being  a  gentleman,  he  had  not  to 
conform  to  an  unwritten  code  of  manners.  Hind- 
ford  walked  away.  And,  as  he  walked,  he  saw 
continually  the  back  of  the  beggar  with  that  black 
coat  of  the  two  hills  and  the  valley  between  the 
shoulder-blades. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Errington  and  Horace,  quite 
unaware  that  they  were  being  followed,  pursued 
their  way.  There  were  a  few  boats  out  on  the 
water,  occupied  by  inexpert  oarsmen  whose  frantic 
efforts  to  seem  natural  and  serene  in  this  to  them 
new  and  complicated  art  drew  the  undivided  at- 
tention of  the  boy,  a  celebrated  "  wet  Bob." 
Mrs.  Errington  was  thinking  about  her  latest  in- 
vestments and  watching  the  golden  walls  grow 
higher  about  her.  Mother  and  son  were  en- 
grossed, and  did  not  hear  a  low  voice  say,  "  I  beg 
your  pardon  ! "  until  it  had  uttered  the  words 
more    than  once.     Then   Horace    looked    round. 


352  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

He  saw  a  tall  and  very  pale  young  man,  neatly 
though  poorly  dressed  in  dark  trousers  and  a  thin 
loose  black  coat  that  might  have  been  made  of 
alpaca,  and  fitted  badly.  This  man's  face  was 
gaunt  and  meagre,  the  features  were  pointed,  the 
mouth  was  piteous.  His  eyes  blazed  with  some 
terrible  emotion,  it  seemed,  and  when  Horace 
looked  round  a  sudden  patch  of  scarlet  burned  on 
his  white  and  bony  cheeks.  Horace's  attention 
was  pinned  by  his  appearance,  which  was  at  the 
same  time  dull  and  piercing,  as  the  human  aspect 
becomes  in  the  tremendous  moment  of  an  exist- 
ence. This  man's  soul  seemed  silently  screaming 
out  in  his  glance,  his  posture,  his  chalk-white 
cheeks  starred  with  scarlet  spots,  his  long-fingered 
hands  drooping  down  in  the  shadow  of  his  ill-fit- 
ting coat,  which  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  Horace 
turned,  looked,  and  stood  still.  The  man  also 
stood  still.     Mrs.  Errington  looked  sharply  round. 

"  What  is  it,  Horace?  "  she  said. 

She  glanced  at  the  man,  and  her  lips  tight- 
ened. 

"  Come  along,  Horace,"  she  said.     "  Come !  " 

But  Horace,  who  seemed  fascinated  by  the 
spectre  that  had  claimed  their  attention,  still  hesi- 
tated, and  the  man,  noticing  this,  half  held  out 
one  hand  and  murmured  in  a  husky  voice — 

"  I  am  starving." 

With  the  words,  the  scarlet  spots  in  his  cheeks 
deepened  to  a  fiercer  hue,  and  he  hung  his  head 
like  one  abruptly  overwhelmed  with  shame. 


THE    LADY   AND   THE    BEGGAR.  353 

"  For  God's  sake  give  me  something  !  "  he  mut- 
tered.    "  I've — I've  never  done  this  before." 

Horace's  hand  went  to  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
but  before  he  could  take  out  a  coin  Mrs.  Erring- 
ton  had  decisively  intervened. 

"  Horace,  I  forbid  you,"  she  said. 

"  Mater!" 

"  Understand — I  forbid  you." 

She  took  his  arm  and  they  walked  on,  leaving 
the  man  standing  by  the  water-side.  He  did  not 
follow  them  or  repeat  his  dismal  statement,  only 
let  his  head  drop  forward  on  his  bosom,  while 
his  fingers  twisted  themselves  convulsively  to- 
gether. 

Meanwhile  a  hot  argument  was  proceeding  be- 
tween Mrs.  Errington  and  Horace.  For  once  it 
seemed  that  the  boy  was  inclined  to  defy  his 
mother. 

"  Let  me  give  him  something — only  a  few  cop- 
pers," he  said. 

"  No  ;  beggars  ought  not  to  be  encouraged." 

"  Tiiat  chap  isn't  a  regular  beggar,  I'll  wager 
anything  it's  true.     He  is  starving." 

"  Nonsense  !     They  always  say  so." 

"  Mater— stop  !     I  must " 

Horace  paused  resolutely  and  looked  round.  In 
the  distance  the  man  could  still  be  seen  standing 
where  they  had  left  him,  his  head  drooped,  his 
narrow  shoulders  hunclied   slightly  forward. 

"  Let  me  run  back,"  the  boy  went  on  ;  "  I  won't 
be  a  minuU." 


354  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

But  Mrs.  Errington's  curious  parsimony  was 
roused  now  to  full  activity. 

"  I  will  not  allow  it,"  she  said ;  "  the  man  is 
probably  a  thief  and  a  drunkard.  Hyde  Park 
swarms  with  bad  characters." 

"  Bad  character  or  not,  he's  starving.  Anyone 
can  see  that." 

"Then  let  him  starve.  It's  his  own  fault.  Let 
him  starve  !  Nobody  need  unless  they  have  com- 
mitted some  folly,  or,  worse,  some  crime.  There's 
bread  enough  for  all  who  deserve  to  live.  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  all  this  preposterous  pauper- 
ising which  goes  by  the  name  of  charity.  It's  a 
fad,  a  fashion — nothing  more." 

She  forced  her  son  to  walk  on.  As  they  went 
he  cast  a  last  glance  back  at  the  beggar. 

"Mater,  you're  cruel!"  he  said,  moved  by  a 
strength  of  emotion  that  was  unusual  in  him — 
"hard  and  cruel !  " 

Mrs.  Errington  made  no  reply.  She  had  gained 
her  point,  and  cared  for  little  else. 

"You'll  repent  this  some  day,"  Horace  con- 
tinued . 

He  was  in  a  passion,  and  scarcely  knew  what  he 
was  saying.  Strings  seemed  drawn  tightly  round 
his  heart,  and  angry  tears  rose  to  his  eyes. 

"You'll  repent  it,  I  bet !  "  he  added. 

Then  he  relapsed  into  silence,  feeling  that  if  he 
spoke  again  he  would  lose  all  the  self-control  that 
a  boy  of  sixteen  thinks  so  much  of. 

All  that  day  Horace  thought  incessantly  of  the 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  BEGGAR.    355 

beggar,  and  felt  an  increasing  sense  of  anger 
against  his  mother.  He  found  himself  looking 
furtively  at  her,  as  one  looks  at  a  stranger,  and 
thinking  her  face  hard  and  pitiless.  She  seemed 
to  him  as  someone  whom  he  had  never  really 
known  till  now,  as  some  one  whom,  now  that  he 
knew  her,  he  feared.  Why  his  mind  dwelt  so 
perpetually  upon  a  casual  beggar  he  couldn't  un- 
derstand. But  so  it  was.  He  saw  perpetually  the 
man's  white  face,  fierce  and  ashamed  eyes,  the 
gesture  at  once  hungry  and  abashed  with  which 
he  asked  for  charity.  All  day  the  vision  haunted 
the  boy  in  the  sunshine. 

Mrs.  Errington,  on  her  part,  calmly  ignored  the 
incident  of  the  morning  and  appeared  not  to 
notice  any  change  in  her  son's  demeanour.  In  the 
evening  Captain  Hindford  came  to  dine.  He  was 
struck  by  Horace's  glumness,  and  in  his  frank  way 
openly  chaffed  the  boy  about  it. 

"What's  up  with  this  young  scoundrel?"  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Errington. 

Horace  grew  very  red. 

"  Horace  is  not  very  well  to-day,"  said  his 
mother. 

"  Mater,  that's  not  true— I'm  all  right." 

"  I  think  it  more  charitable  to  suppose  you 
seedy,"  she  replied. 

"Charitable!"  Horace  cried.  "Well,  Mater, 
what  on  carlh  do  you  know  about  charity?  " 

Captain  I  lindford  began  to  look  embarrassed, 
and    endeavoured    to     change     the     subject,   but 


356  TONGUKS   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Horace  suddenly  burst  out  into  the  story  of  the 
beggar. 

"  It  was  just  after  you  left  us,"  he  said  to  the 
Captain. 

"  I  saw  the  fellow  following  you,"  the  Captain 
said.  Then  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Errington.  "  These 
chaps  are  the  plague  of  the  Park,"  he  added. 

"  Exactly.     That  is  what  I  tell  Horace." 

"  I  don't  care  !  "  the  boy  said  stoutly.  "  He  was 
starving,  and  we  were  brutes  not  to  give  him 
something.  The  Mater'll  be  sorry  for  it  someday. 
I  know  it.     I  can  feel  it." 

Captain  Hindford  began  to  talk  about  French 
plays  rather  hastily. 

When  Mrs.  Errington  went  up  to  the  drawing- 
room,  Horace  suddenly  said  to  the  Captain — 

"  I  say,  Hindford,  do  me  a  good  turn  to-night, 
will  you?  " 

"Well,  old  chap,  what  is  it,  eh?" 

"  When  you  say  *  good-night,*  don't  really  go." 

The  Captain  looked  astonished. 

"  But "  he  began. 

"Wait  outside  a  second  for  me.  When  the 
Mater's  gone  to  bed  I  want  you  to  come  into  the 
Park  with  me." 

"The  Park?     What  for?  " 

"  To  find  that  beggar  chap.  I  bet  he's  there. 
Lots  of  his  sort  sleep  there,  you  know.  I  want 
to  give  him  something.  And — somehow — I'd  like 
you  to  come  with  me.  Besides,  it  doesn't  do  to 
go  looking  for  anyone  in  the  Park  alone  at  night. ' 


THE    LADY   AND   THE    BEGGAR.         35/ 

"  That's  true,"  the   Captain  said.     "  All   right, 
Errington  ;   I'll  come." 

And,  after  bidding   Mrs.  Errington  good-night, 
he  lingered  in  Park  Lane  till  he  was  joined  by 
Horace.     They  turned  at  once  into  the  Park  and 
began  to  make  their  way  in  the  direction  of  the 
Serpentine.     It  was  a  soft  night,  full  of  the  fine 
and  minute  rain  that  belongs  especially  to  spring 
weather.     The    clocks    of    the    town    had    struck 
eleven,  and    most  of  the    legitimate  sweethearts 
who  make  the  Park  their    lover's  walk  had   gone 
home,  leaving  this  realm  of  lawns  and  trees  and 
waters  to    the  night-birds,  the    pickpockets,   the 
soldiers,  and  the  unhealthily  curious  persons  over 
whom  it  exercises  such  a  continual  and  gloomy 
fascination.     Hindford  and    Horace   could    have 
seen  many  piteous  sights    had   they  cared   to   as 
they   walked   down  the  long    path  by  the  Row. 
The  boy  peered  at  each  seat  as  they  passed,  and 
once  or  twice  hesitated  by  some  thin  and  tragic 
figure,  stretched  in    uneasy  slumber  or  bowed  in 
staring  reverie  face  to   face  with   the  rainy  night. 
Hut  from  each  in  turn  he  drew  back,  occasionally 
followed  by  a  muttered  oath  or  a  sharp  ejaculation. 

"  I  bet  he'll  be  somewhere  by  the  Serpentine," 
the  boy  said  to  Hindford. 

And  they  walked  on  till  at  length  they  reached 
the  black  sheet  of  water  closely  mufTlcd  in  the 
night. 

"  We  met  him  somewhere  just  here,"  Horace 
said. 


358  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

"I  know,"  Hindford  rejoined.  "He  got  up 
from  this  seat.  But  he  may  be  a  dozen  miles  off 
by  now." 

"  No,"  Horace  said,  with  a  curious  pertinacity; 
"  I'm  sure  he's  about  here  still.  He  looked  like 
a  man  with  no  home.  Ugh  !  how  dreary  it  is ! 
Come  along,  Hindford." 

The  good-natured  Captain  obeyed,  and  they 
went  on  by  the  cheerless  water,  which  was  only 
partially  revealed  in  the  blackness.  Suddenly  they 
both  stopped. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  Horace  exclaimed. 

A  shrill  whistle,  followed  by  shouts,  came  to 
them,  apparently  from  the  water.  Then  there 
was  an  answering  whistle  from  somewhere  in  the 
Park. 

"It's  the  police,"  said  Hindford.  "There's 
something  up." 

They  hurried  on,  and  in  a  moment  saw  what 
looked  like  a  great  black  shadow,  rising  out  of  the 
water,  lifting  in  his  arms  another  shadow,  which 
drooped  and  hung  down  Avith  the  little  waves 
curling  round  it.  As  they  drew  close  they  saw 
that  the  first  shadow  was  a  policeman,  up  to  his 
waist  in  the  water,  and  the  second  shadow  was  a 
man  whom  he  held  in  his  arms,  as  he  waded  with 
diflficulty  to  the  shore. 

"  Lend  a  hand,  mates,"  he  shouted  as  he  saw 
them. 

Just  then  a  light  shone  out  over  the  black  lake 
from   the  bull's-eye  of  a  second  policeman   who 


THE    LADY   AND   THE    BEGGAR.         359 

had  hurried  up  in  answer  to  his  comrade's  whistle. 
Between  them  they  quickly  got  the  man  on  shore, 
and  laid  him  down  on  the  path  on  his  back.  The 
bull's-eye  lantern,  turned  full  on  him,  lit  up  a  face 
that  seemed  all  bony  structure,  staring  eyes,  a 
mouth  out  of  which  the  water  dripped.  He  had 
no  coat  on  and  his  thin  arms  were  like  those  of  a 
skeleton. 

"  Dead  as  a  door-nail,"  said  the  first  policeman. 
"  A  case  of  suicide." 

"  God!  Hindford,  it's  he!  It's  the  chap  who 
asked  mc  for  money  this  morning !"  whispered 
Horace.     "  Is  he  really  dead  ?  " 

The  Captain,  who  had  been  examining  the  body 
and  feeling  the  heart,  nodded.  Horace  gazed 
upon  the  white  face  with  a  sort  of  awful  curiosity. 
He  had  never  before  looked  at  a  corpse. 

"  Look  here,  Errington,"  Hindford  said  to  the 
boy  that  night  as  he  parted  from  him  in  Park 
Lane,  "  don't  tell  your  mother  anything  of  this." 
But— but,  Hindford " 


<i 


"  Come,  now,  you  take  my  advice.  Keep  a 
quiet  tongue  in  your  head." 

"  But  perhaps  it  was  her  fault ;  it  was — if  we'd 
given  the  poor  chap  something  he'd " 

"  Probably.  That's  just  the  reason  I  don't  want 
you  to  tell  Mrs.  Errington  anything  of  it.  Come, 
promise  me  on  your  honour.'' 

"All  right,  Hindford,  I'll  promise.  How  hor- 
rible it's  all  been  !  " 

"  Don't  think  about  it,  l.ul.     Good-night." 


360  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Horace  trembled  as  he  stole  up  the  black  stair- 
case to  bed.  He  meant  to  keep  his  promise,  of 
course,  but  he  wondered  whether  the  Mater  would 
have  owned  that  she  was  in  the  wrong  that  morn- 
ing if  she  had  heard  his  dreary  talc  of  the  beggar's 
death  in  the  night. 

The  next  day  it  was  Mrs.  Errington  who  asked 
Horace  to  go  out  walking.  She  looked  rather 
pale  and  fatigued  at  breakfast,  but  declared  her 
intention  of  taking  a  constitutional. 

"  Come  with  me,  Horace,"  she  said. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered,  with  a  curious  and 
almost  shy  boyish  coldness. 

"  Not  into  the  Park,  Mater,"  he  said,  as  they 
were  starting. 

"  Why  not  ?  We  always  walk  there.  Where 
else  should  we  go  ?  " 

"  Anywhere — shopping — Regent  Street." 

"  No,  Horace.  I've  got  a  headache  to-day.  I 
want  a  quiet  place." 

He  didn't  say  more.  They  set  out,  and  Mrs. 
Errington  took  the  precise  route  they  had  followed 
the  day  before.  She  glanced  rather  sharply  about 
her  as  they  walked.  Presently  they  reached  the 
seat  on  which  the  beggar  had  been  sitting  just  be- 
fore he  got  up  to  follow  them.  Mrs.  Errington 
paused  beside  it. 

"  I'm  tired.     Let  us  sit  down  here,"  she  said. 

"  No,  Mater,  not  here." 

"  Really,  Horace,"  Mrs.  Errington  said,  "  you 
are  in  an  extraordinary  mood  to-day.     You  have 


THE    LADY   AND   THE    BEGGAR.         361 

no    regard    for   me.      What    is   the  matter  with 

"i  " 
you  r 

And  she  sat  down  on  the  seat.  Horace  re- 
mained standing. 

"  I  shan't  sit  here,"  he  said  obstinately. 

"  Very  well,"  Mrs.  Errington  replied. 

She  really  began  to  look  ill,  but  Horace  was  too 
much  preoccupied  with  his  own  feelings  to  notice 
it.  There  was  something  abominable  to  him  in 
his  mother  sitting  calmly  down  to  rest  in  the  very 
place  occupied  a  few  hours  ago  by  the  wretched 
creature  who  had,  so  Horace  believed,  been  driven 
to  death  by  her  refusal  of  charity.  He  felt  sick 
with  horror  in  that  neighbourhood,  and  he  moved 
away,  and  stood  staring  across  the  Serpentine. 
Presently  Mrs.  Errington  called  to  him  in  a  faint 
voice 

"  Horace,  come  and  give  me  your  hand." 

He  turned,  noticed  her  extreme  pallor,  and  ran 
up. 

"  What's  the  row  ?     Are  you  ill,  Mater  ?  " 

"No.  Help  me  up."  He  i)ut  out  his  hand. 
She  got  up  slowly. 

"  We'll  go  home,"  he  said.  "  You  look  awfully 
seedy." 

"  No  ;  let  us  walk  on," 

In  spite  of  his  remonstrances  she  insisted  on 
walking  uj)  and  down  at  the  edge  of  the  Serpen- 
tine for  quite  an  hour.  She  appeared  to  be  on  the 
look-out  for  somebody.  Over  and  over  again  they 
passed  the  spot  where  the   beggar  had  drowned 


362  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

himself.  Their  feet  trod  over  the  ground  on 
which  his  dead  body  had  been  laid.  Each  time 
they  reached  it  Horace  felt  himself  grow  cold. 
Death  is  so  terrible  to  the  young.  At  last  Mrs. 
Errington  stopped. 

"  I  can't  walk  much  more,"  she  said. 

"  Then  do  let's  go  home  now,"  Horace  said. 

She  stood  looking  round  her,  searching  the  Tark 
with  her  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  we  must,"  she  said  slowly.  Then 
she   added,  "  We   can    come   here  again  to-mor- 


row. 


Horace  was  puzzled. 

"  What  for?     Why  should  we  ?  "  he  asked. 

But  his  mother  made  no  reply,  and  they  walked 
home. 

Next  day  she  insisted  on  going  again  to  the 
same  place,  and  again  she  was  obviously  on  the 
look-out.  Horace  grew  more  and  more  puzzled 
by  her  demeanour.  And  when  the  third  day  came, 
and  once  more  Mrs.  Errington  called  him  to  set 
forth  to  the  Serpentine,  he  said  to  her,  with  a  boy's 
bluntness 

"  D'  you  want  to  meet  someone  there?  " 

Mrs.  Errington  looked  at  him  strangely. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  minute's  silence. 

"Why,  who  is  it?" 

"  That  beggar  I  wouldn't  let  you  give  money 

to. 

Horace  turned  scarlet  with  the  shock  of  surprise 
and   the  knowledge — which   he  absurdly  felt  as 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  BEGGAR.    363 

guilty  knowledge — that  the  man  was  dead,  per- 
haps even  buried  by  now. 

"  Oh,  nonsense.  Mater  !  "  he  began,  stammering. 
"  He  won't  come  there  again.  Besides,  you  never 
give  to  beggars." 

"  I  mean  to  give  this  man  something." 

Horace  was  more  and  more  surprised. 

"Why?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  now?  You 
wouldn't  when  I  wanted  you  to,  and  now — now 
it's  too  late.  What  do  you  wish  to  give  to  him 
for  now  ?  " 

But  all  she  would  say  was,  "  I  feel  that  I  should 
like  to,  that — that  his  perhaps  really  was  a  deserv- 
ing case.     Come,  Horace,  let  us  go  and  try  to  find 

h»» 
im. 

And  the  boy,  bound  by  his  word  to  Captain 
Hindford,  was  forced  to  go  out  in  search  of  a  dead 
man.  He  felt  the  horror  of  this  quest.  To-day 
Mrs.  Errington  carried  her  purse  in  her  hand,  and 
looked  eagerly  out  for  the  beggar.  Once  she 
fancied  she  sav/  him  in  the  distance. 

"There  he  is!"  she  cried  to  Horace.  "Run 
and  fetch  him." 

The  boy  turned  pale,  and  stared. 

"Where,  Mater?" 

"  Among  those  trees." 

"It  can't  be!     Nonsense!" 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  you  are  right.  T  made  a 
mistake.  It's  only  somebody  like  hini.  Why, 
Horace,  what's  the  matter?" 

■^  Nothing,"  he  answered. 


'364  TONGUES   OK    CONSCIENCE. 

But  he  was  shaking.  The  business  was  too 
ghastly.  He  felt  he  couldn't  stand  it  much 
longer,  and  he  resolved  to  go  to  Captain  Hind- 
ford  and  persuade  the  Captain  to  absolve  him  from 
his  promise.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day, 
accordingly,  he  went  off  to  Knightsbridge.  He 
rang,  and  was  told  that  Captain  Hindford  had 
gone  to  Paris  and  was  afterwards  going  for  a  tour 
on  the  Continent.  His  heart  sank  at  the  news. 
Was  he  to  go  on  day  after  day  searching  with 
his  mother  for  this  corpse,  which  was  rotting  in 
the  grave?  He  asked  for  Hindford's  address.  It 
was  Poste  Restante,  Monte  Carlo.  But  the  serv- 
ant added  that  letters  sent  there  might  have  to 
wait  for  two  or  three  days,  as  his  master's  imme- 
diate plans  were  unsettled.  Horace,  however, 
went  to  the  nearest  telegraph-oflRce  and  wired  to 
Hindford — 

"  Let  me  off  promise  ;  urgent. — HORACE  Er- 
RINGTON." 

Then,  having  done  all  he  could,  he  went  back 
to  Park  Lane.  He  found  his  mother  in  a  curiously 
restless  state,  and  directly  he  came  in  she  began 
to  talk  about  the  beggar. 

"  I  must  and  will  find  that  man,"  she  said. 

"Mater,  why?" 

"  Because  I  shall  never  be  well  till  I  do,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  cannot  be 
still  by  day,  and  I  cannot  rest  by  night,  for  think- 
ing of  him.  Why  did  I  not  let  you  give  him 
something?  " 


THE    LADY   AND    THE    BEGGAR.         365 

"  Mater,  I  wish  to  God  you  had  !  "  the  boy  said 
solemnly. 

Mrs.  Errington  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  un- 
usual manner.     She  was  self-engrossed. 

**  However,  we  shall  see  him  again,  no  doubt," 
she  went  on.  "  And  then  I  shall  give  him  some- 
thing handsome.     I  know  he  needs  it." 

Horace  went  hastily  out  of  the  room.  He 
longed  for  a  wire  from  Captain  Hindford.  Next 
day  he  "  shammed  ill,"  as  he  called  it  to  himself, 
so  as  to  got  out  of  going  into  the  Park.  So  Mrs. 
Errington  went  off  by  herself  in  a  condition  of 
almost  feverish  anticipation. 

"I  know  I  shall  see  him  to-day,"  she  said,  as  she 

left  Horace. 

She  returned  at  lunch-time,  and  came  up  at  once 

to  his  room. 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  she  said. 

Horace  sat  up,  staring  at  her  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. 

"  What,  Mater  ?     What  d'you  say  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  him." 

"No?" 

"  Yes.  I  went  to  the  place  where  he  asked  you 
for  money,  and  walked  up  and  down  for  ages. 
But  he  wasn't  there.  At  last  I  gave  it  up  and 
crossed  the  bridge.  I  took  it  into  my  head  to 
come  home  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  Well, 
when  I  was  half-way  along  it,  I  looked  across,  and 
there  I  saw  him." 

"Rot.  Mater!" 


366  TONGUES   OF    CONSCIENCE. 

"  He  was  standing  alone  by  the  water,  staring 
straight  across  at  me,  just  as  if  he  saw  me  and  was 
trying  to  attract  my  attention." 

"No,  no!" 

"  Horace,  don't  be  silly  !  Why  do  you  contra- 
dict me?  He  looked  just  the  same  as  when  we 
saw  him  first,  only  he  had  no  coat  on." 

Horace  gave  a  sort  of  gasp. 

"  I  suppose  his  poverty  had  compelled  him  to 
pawn  it,"  Mrs.  Errington  continued.  "  Don't  you 
think  so,  Horace?  People  can  pawn  clothes, 
can't  they?  " 

The  boy  nodded.     His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her. 

"  I  looked  across  at  him,"  Mrs.  Errington  con- 
tinued, "and  made  a  sign  to  him  to  come  round 
to  meet  me  by  the  other  end,  near  the  Row.  I 
held  up  my  purse  so  that  he  might  understand 
me." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  He  turned  away  and  hurried  off  among  the 
trees." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  Do  you  know,  Horace,"  Mrs.  Errington  con- 
tinued rather  excitedly,  "  I  think  if  you  had  beck- 
oned to  him  he  would  have  come.  He's  afraid  of 
me,  perhaps,  because — because  I  wouldn't  let  you 
give  to  him.  To-morrow  you  must  come  out  with 
me.  Till  I've  relieved  that  man's  wants  I  shall 
have  no  peace." 

She  hastened  out  of  the  room,  apparently  in  a 
quiver  of  unusual  agitation.     Horace  sat  petrified. 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  BEGGAR.    367 

If  only  Hindford  would  telegraph  !     That  cursed 

promise  ! 

On  the  following  day  it  rained.  Nevertheless, 
Mrs.  Errington  almost  violently  insisted  upon 
Horace  accompanying  her  to  search  for  the 
beggar. 

"  We  shall  go  to  the  far  side  of  the  water,"  she 
said.  "  I  believe  when  we  go  to  the  other  side  he 
sees  us  coming  and  avoids  us.  But  if  we  can  catch 
sight  of  him,  as  I  did  yesterday,  you  can  beckon 
to  him,  and  I  am  certain  when  he  sees  you  he  will 
come." 

Horace  said  nothing.  He  felt  cold  about  the 
heart,  not  so  much  with  fear  as  with  awe  and 
wonder.  They  went  to  the  far  bank,  and  almost 
directly  Mrs.  Errington   cried  out 

"  There  he  is,  and  without  his  coat  again  !  How 
wet  he  must  be  getting  !  " 

Horace  looked  across  the  dull  water,  through 
the  driving  rain.  He  saw  no  one  on  the  opposite 
bank. 

"  He  sees  us,"  Mrs.  Errington  added.  "  Horace, 
you  beckon  to  him.  Here,  take  my  purse.  Hold 
it  up,  and  then  point  to  him  to  come  round  and 
meet  us." 

Mechanically  the  boy  obeyed. 

"  Ah,  I  knew  it  !  This  time  he  is  coming,"  said 
Mrs.  Errington. 

"  He  is  coming,  Mater?" 

"  Yes;  come  along." 

She  hurried  towards  the  end  of  the  Serpentine. 


368  TONGUES   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

Horace  walked  by  her  side,  staring  in  horror 
through  the  rain. 

"  Poor  man  ! "  Mrs,  Errington  said  presently. 
"  How  ghastly  he  looks !  " 

"  Mater— I  say " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Is  he  near?  " 

"Near?" 

Mrs.  Errington  stopped  in  amazement. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Horace?" 

"  What  I  say.     Is  he  near  now  ?  " 

"  Near  ?     He's  just  coming  up." 

Suddenly  the  boy  fainted. 

When  he  came  to  he  was  lying  in  the  shelter  of 
the  Rescue  Society. 

"  Ah,  Horace,"  his  mother  said,  "  you  ought  to 
have  stayed  in  bed  another  day." 

"Yes,  Mater." 

"You  frightened  that  poor  man.  He  made  ofif 
when  you  fainted." 

That  evening  Horace  received  a  telegram  from 
Monte  Carlo 

"  Very  well  but  better  say  nothing. — HlND- 
FORD." 

He  read  it,  laid  it  down,  and  told  Mrs.  Erring- 
ton the  truth. 

•  ••••• 

As  already  stated,  she  died  very  suddenly  not 
long  afterwards,  leaving  behind  her  the  will  which 
so  astonished  London. 

THE   END. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 

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